#one last bark for good measure

[jayparked]

BREATHE SNAIL THAT WAS THE BARE MINIMUM I HAVE WAY MORE!😍

[ddarker-dreams]

Cherubim.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: Implied trauma, Gojo and Geto are both weird + manipulative. Word count: 6k.

-Index-

March 18th, 2006. 

2:26 p.m.

-

Gojo Satoru has found himself embroiled in his greatest turmoil yet. 

Assassination attempts? That’s nothing, he’s waved those off since he was a kid. Jujutsu politics? The higher-ups can yap until they’re blue in the face; they’re all bark, no bite. Curses? Similarly inconsequential. No matter how much power they hold, they're reduced to speckled splatters the instant they cross his path. 

For most, experiencing one of these dilemmas would prove too overwhelming, much less all three. He isn’t like most, though. He’s strong. Incomprehensibly strong. He can weather any storm, shift the tides of any battle in his favor. Has this gone to his head? Absolutely. He can handle ‘too much.’ It’s ‘not enough’ that’s proving to be an issue. 

This is why he’s detailing his recent woes to an uninterested Ieri Shoko, who made the mistake of reading in the dormitory’s common area. 

The scene is as follows:

Satoru’s along the length of the couch, his long, lanky limbs dangling wherever they can. He lays his head against the armrest, snowy hair succumbing to gravity in an avalanche that frames his face. He uses his ability to keep his sunglasses from meeting the same fate. Behind the dark frames, his eyes narrow into a piercing stare. If the ceiling were sentient, it would’ve fled by now. Such is the potency of his miserable mood. 

Parallel to him sits Shoko, the fat of her cheek squished upward from resting on her fist for so long. Books, candy wrappers, and notes from last year’s curriculum yet to be thrown away litter the table’s surface. Suguru’s could put a calligraphist to shame, even if they were written in a Badtz-Maru pencil you won from a gachapon. Your notes stand out as well. They’re bright shades of your favorite colors, organized according to a system of your own devising. Occasionally, the handwriting shifts, taking on Suguru or Shoko’s likeness for trickier kanji. You doodle hearts of gratitude around the yomigana they include for good measure. 

(You complained that his handwriting was ‘indecipherable’ when he tried doing the same. Out of spite, he gave you the cold shoulder… for three minutes. He withers and wilts without your attention). 

He sighs and concludes his monologue. 

“So, that just about sums everything up. Well? What’s the prognosis, Doc?” 

“You’re in desperate need of more friends,” Shoko replies. Satoru lets out an unsatisfied grunt. “And you miss [First].” 

Satoru perks up at your mention, finally giving that poor ceiling a much-needed reprieve. He shuffles around until he’s facing Shoko. 

“But she just headed out yesterday.” 

“I know.” 

“That’d make me really weird and clingy, right?” 

“Glad you’re catching on.” 

While Satoru contemplates the previously unconsidered possibility of him being ‘really weird and clingy,’ Shoko reopens her manga. She’s of the mistaken belief that the issue has resolved itself. Unfortunately for her, the problem extends beyond Satoru’s insatiable hunger for you. The problem is Satoru himself. Until he’s running amuck elsewhere, there’ll be no solace. 

She commends herself for her patience. 

In typical Satoru fashion, he continues testing it. 

“When was the last time you updated your passport?” 

“I’m not flying to her home country with you,” Shoko shuts down what he thought was a brilliant plan. “It’s just two weeks. Wait it out.” 

“What if we fly first class?” 

“Gojo.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s still too soon to meet her parents. It’s gotta happen eventually though, right?” 

Shoko doesn’t dignify this with a response. 

Satoru sinks into the cushions. Could there be anything worse than boredom? He has no missions lined up, you and Suguru are visiting family, and the first-years haven’t arrived yet. Pestering Utahime has lost its charm too. He could return home before the school year starts, but he’d rather have his fingers chopped off one by one than suffer that torture. 

“Hey, Shoko.” 

“Mm.” 

“Why aren’t you back home? I thought you got along with your parents.” 

“They’re both busy. I wouldn’t see them much.” 

Satoru doesn’t press the matter. 

It does intrigue him though — the relationship sorcerers have with their non-sorcerer families. Or, to be more specific, yours and Suguru’s familial dynamics intrigue him. Satoru can’t (and doesn’t bother trying) to care for the going-ons of anyone outside his small circle. This is more the hubris of a teenager who has been told he’s special his entire life than anything malicious. To Satoru, the world’s population might as well be stuck at three. 

Regardless, it’s an improvement.

Before meeting Suguru, those in his life consisted almost exclusively of suckups or stuckups. If he was unlucky, it’d be both, rolled into one terrible package. This was his reality. Jujutsu was his reality. He was the first to possess the Limitless and the Six Eyes in generations. The Gojo clan wouldn’t waste such an extraordinary opportunity. He was their pride and joy, personality aside. 

He was born to be the strongest. 

He can’t imagine any other life for himself. 

Then there’s you. 

He could see you leading a normal life. You wouldn’t be top of the class or a varsity athlete, but you’d be well-liked. Boys would nervously ask you out on dates and buy you roses with money they got from mowing lawns. You’d be the first one your friends would call when they experienced heartache. Maybe you’d go to college or land an entry-level job. Some co-worker with a decent sense of humor would win you over. Then you’d get married, rent a property, have a few kids… 

Satoru’s stomach twists. He grimaces, shifting his thoughts elsewhere. Namely, the question that’s bothered him for a while. 

Why did you become a jujutsu sorcerer? 

It was intentional. You chose to leave behind your home, your family. You knew the risks. How the body can break and ache in ways previously unrecorded. And what do you get in return for this thankless crusade? Sleepless nights where you tremble like a leaf beside Shoko? A nimbleness at dressing wounds that could only have come from years of practice? 

You’re open about everything until you aren’t. Fear, mortality, loss — when confronted by these unsightly truths, you retreat to someplace he can’t follow. 

Satoru can’t make sense of it. Neither can Suguru. Shoko says they shouldn’t press the matter. He wants to, though. He needs to know how you break. How else can he ensure that you never will? 

He thinks back to that humid August day. The binding vow eviscerated your insides, shards from fractured bones dug into your organs. Until that point in his life, Satoru prided himself on his immunity to fear. The pathogen never lasted long in his system. After all, fear is born from a lack of control. From having something to lose. If he couldn’t lose, what was there to be afraid of? 

It’s a question he’s been avoiding. 

(“If she dies,” he told Suguru, in a voice he barely recognized as his own, “They die too.”)

His mouth feels dry, his tongue heavy. He’ll drink that tea you’re fond of later to satiate his thirst. He wonders if you share its taste.

“What’re you reading, anyway?” he asks, hoping to take his mind elsewhere.

“Fruits Basket.” 

He laughs, incredulous. 

“Seriously? Didn’t take you for a shoujo type.” 

“I borrowed it from [First]. We’re doing a book exchange over break.” 

A book exchange… three words Satoru never thought would pique his curiosity. However, anything about you demands his undying attention. Even if it’s shoujo manga. Girls who read that genre do it to project onto the heroine, right? So the love interest must have appealed to you. What tropes do you like? Do you want a shy, sensitive soul who blushes and stutters in your presence? A misunderstood bad boy who’s only soft around you? The responsible student council president? 

Oh, he’ll have so much material to tease you with when you return. He can’t wait. 

“How do I enter this exclusive book club?” Satoru demands. 

“You don’t. I don’t trust your taste,” Shoko replies, much to his chagrin. “You can still read it, though. She has all of the volumes in her room.” 

… Your room? 

He grins from ear to ear.

Should he respect your privacy? Probably. Is he going to? Of course not. He never has, there’s no point in starting now. 

This trip of yours might yet redeem itself. 

-

Along the outskirts of Jujutsu High, Geto Suguru spots an odd woman. 

She’s wearing a baggy graphic tee, low-rise jeans, and gaudy bracelets on both arms. Her black hair is tossed up, thick strands sticking in every direction. Even from this distance, he can discern the silver glint of piercings that dot her ear like constellations. The stranger stands slouched, both her hands shoved into her pockets. For her to have gotten this far, she can’t be a civilian. Those unfamiliar with jujutsu can’t find this place. 

He stays still for a spell — watching and waiting. From this distance, she shouldn’t be able to sense his presence. It’s one of the few areas he excels at over Satoru. Satoru’s cursed energy is bright, blindingly so, a thunderous clap that can be heard for miles. Suguru prefers to keep his muted. It coils around his limbs like a serpent, never straying far. This is why you had no difficulty picking out Satoru’s stupefying presence on your first day, whereas he had to make himself known to you. 

Suguru’s lips quirk up. 

He was fated to meet you. 

“Hey! Kiddo!” A deep, somewhat raspy voice exclaims. He blinks rapidly, temporarily thrown off. “This ain’t an art gallery. What’s with the staring?” 

She noticed him? How? 

When the stranger starts slinking his way, he regains his composure. 

“I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable,” Suguru’s cadence flows smoother than a river. 

“Hah! ‘Uncomfortable?’ That’s a way of putting it,” she pokes the space beneath her emerald eyes twice. “Even now, I can feel ya picking me apart. Shit’s creepy.” 

His smile tightens. “I’ll be more mindful of my conduct in the future, then.” 

She waves him off. Her golden bracelets clink together as she does so, the sound grating his ears. 

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one. And I should know. Schemers excel at picking out their brothers in arms,” she juts her head up, giving the impression that she’s the one looking down on him, despite the slight height difference. 

“Anyhow, by the looks of it, you must be Sugu-kun.” 

… Did she just call him Sugu-kun? 

“What? Too soon* to be calling you that? Heh, heh…” 

Suguru’s smile tightens. “You can refer to me however you like, so long as I can return the favor.” 

She guffaws.

“Maaan, Goldie sure was gracious in her description of you,” the woman gives him a lopsided grin. “Name’s Akane. There — is the playing field leveled now?” 

“Ishimoto Akane?”

He doesn’t miss the way she winces as her surname is spoken aloud, rather pointedly at that. 

“Ah. S’pose I had that coming.” 

Suguru decides against prolonging her torment. He’s in a generous mood, it isn’t every day he has a chance to learn more about you. This is an opportunity he’ll take full advantage of. 

“And I presume 'Goldie' is [First]?” 

He makes a mental note to figure out the wordplay for your nickname later. 

“Full marks.”

Suguru hums, a sound indicating that he’s drifting deep into thought. 

You don’t mention your mentor often. When you do, it’s normally in the form of endearing (if not mildly concerning) anecdotes.

“She told me that natto is bits of caramel held together by melted marshmallows, like a Rice Krispy Treat. It… it was not like a Rice Krispy Treat…” 

“... For my twelfth birthday, she got me Pokemon Ruby. I remember crying because Roxeanne’s Nosepass took out my Torchic. My cursed energy spiked and the party had to end early…” 

“... Out of curiosity, I drank her stash of Georgia canned coffee. My heart rate was almost high enough to warrant a trip to the ER…” 

Getting anything else relating to her out of you was like trying to wring water from a rock. Suguru didn’t miss the wistful melancholy underpinning your stories. You recalled them with a far-off expression as if mourning that those days of whimsy were over. Initially, he considered it a consequence of growing up. Childhood idols rarely remain highly esteemed as the years pass and maturity accrues. 

His intuition argued that he should examine the issue closer.

(“I met her, y’know,” Satoru mentioned whilst he spun in a rolling chair ‘commandeered’ from Yaga. “Akane. Our girl’s mentor. Former mentor? Whatever the case is.” 

Suguru sat his pencil aside, any investment in his studies gone.

“When?” 

“Last March.” 

Suguru sighed. “And you didn’t bring this up earlier because…?” 

There’s a twinkle in his companion’s sunglasses-covered eyes.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Satoru shrugged. 

Liar, Suguru thought, unamused by Satoru’s faux nonchalance. He must’ve had his reasons for neglecting to mention it for so long. Suguru figured your impending trip home had something to do with Satoru’s ‘miraculously’ cured amnesia. 

“What? Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”

The provocation failed to irk him. Instead, Suguru refocused the conversation.“Tell me your impression of her.”

Satoru stilled, threw his feet atop Suguru’s desk, and placed his hands on his neck. “About what you’d expect from a disgraced daughter of an influential clan. Bad-tempered, tattooed, pierced up… hah! Bet her old man would go into cardiac arrest if he saw her.”��

“Satoru,” he implored. 

“Fine, fine. So impatient,” The white-haired sorcerer complained. “I misread her. She got all mopey after she fessed up about Cursed Technique: Null. I wrote it off as envy. The student exceeding the master, or whatever.” 

Satoru remained silent for a moment. “Post Kaizu, though, I assume the feeling actually gnawing at her… ” 

Kaizu. 

Panicked phone calls. Satoru’s agitated exclamations. His horrified silence. Your breathing faded, theirs accelerated. You looked so small. So human. He scarcely believed the limp girl cradled in his arms just executed such a devastating maneuver. Your cursed energy had exceeded any output he’d felt from you before. It was too much, your body wasn’t ready to endure a spike like that. 

Suguru had never felt so distant from the title ‘strongest.’

At some point later on, in a hospital waiting room, Suguru posed a question. 

Satoru heard him yet offered no response.

“Who taught her how to do that?”

“... was guilt.”)

“You didn’t visit her.” 

Akane blinks. 

“Hah?” 

“You didn’t visit her,” Suguru repeats, his tone firmer. “[First]. Your student.” 

She exhales shakily. Suguru thinks she looks tired. 

“If you have something to say, just come out with it already.” 

He was prepared to wear her down for hours — this willing cooperation saves him time. Although, it doesn’t make navigating the volatile minefield that lies ahead any easier. He knows how to rein Satoru in when he’s going too far. He can fluster you without giving too much of himself away. After rescuing someone from a curse, he knows the exact pitch, timbre, and tempo necessary to pierce through their abject horror. He’s a virtuoso at playing people, a conductor hidden amidst the audience. 

Deceit. Misdirection. Coercion. 

His repertoire is expansive and ever-growing. 

From what he can see — what he can feel — the prodigal daughter before him boasts a similar discography. She returns his unflinching eye contact as if issuing a challenge. Daring him to use dubious methods that might work on anyone else. This obstinate resolve reminds him of you. Once you’ve determined your course, even he struggles to change the route.

He abandons all pretense. 

“You didn’t want her here,” he theorizes. Akane’s face reveals nothing. “You knew something like that was bound to happen.” 

Sorcerers aren’t only at war with curses. No, there’s an inner battle that must be fought as well. The recognition that the next assignment could be your last. And if it is, you won’t be commemorated by the masses; to them, you don’t exist. Your sacrifice will be known to a select few who mourn you, or  a few who don’t. Everything could go right. Everything could go wrong. Engaging in that high risk for such a low reward goes against one’s self-preservation instincts.

How each sorcerer handles this fight is unique to them. 

As for your strategy — you refuse to acknowledge this conflict exists. 

Paradoxically enough, that functions as your self-preservation. 

Akane smiles thinly. She’s almost his reflection, in that regard.

“Full marks.” 

-

Suguru idly observes as Satoru paces back and forth, his troubled figure illuminated by a row of vending machines. 

A nearby street lamp flickers. It’s late, but the local convenience stores glow with artificial light, tempting customers to come inside. Some are weary salarymen grabbing ready-made meals, others are middle schoolers clinking their change together, praying they can afford a sugary treat. The latest group cheers, indicating their triumph. 

The duo receives odd looks — thanks to their school uniforms, no doubt — not that they pay the judgment any mind. No one troubles them. Not even a wandering policeman, who, under normal circumstances, would scold minors out by themselves at night. 

Suguru theorizes that Satoru’s ominous aura is what subconsciously repels them. 

Earlier today, Suguru bid farewell to his parents and boarded a train for Tokyo. As nice as it was to spend time with his family, he’d been looking forward to reuniting with you and Satoru. He amassed quite the phone bill thanks to your frequent correspondence. Nonetheless, he carried the minor debt with pride; it’s a sign you often thought about him. He planned for Satoru to assume the debt by dangling the pictures you sent his way as ransom. 

His encounter with Ishimoto Akane grounded his soaring mood. This was made worse when he entered the dormitory, only to find a tight-lipped Shoko and agitated Satoru. 

Shoko remarked that unlike the two of them, she’d be handling things with ‘tact,’ and retired for the evening, not wanting to catch their ‘stupidity contagion.’ 

It’d been hours since then. That time stretch brought them closer to revealing the complete picture, but a few pieces remained missing or incomplete. 

The frenetic sorcerer stills and rummages around in his pocket.

Suguru takes the opportunity to break the silence. “I—” 

He cuts himself off as Satoru whips out a familiar-looking chapstick. The cutesy design befitting your aesthetic stands out like a sore thumb in Satoru’s large, calloused hands. 

“... Where did you get that?” 

“[First]’s room,” is Satoru’s response, spoken nonchalantly whilst applying it to his lips. “Why?” 

Suguru snorts. Sometimes Satoru’s ungodly strength blinds him to the fact that he’s still a teenage boy. 

“Won’t she notice it’s missing?” 

“I replaced it.” 

“Ah.”

“She has plenty more in the drawer beneath her vanity if you want one.” 

Suguru knows the exact spot Satoru’s referring to. They both helped you assemble it (Satoru got bored fifteen minutes in and fell asleep on your bed but still claims credit). 

After noting this suggestion, he asks, “Have you calmed down?” 

Satoru barks out a ‘hah!’ as if he’d just heard a hilarious joke. “Me? Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?” 

Suguru massages his temples, sensing the looming headache that awaits him. “Satoru…” 

“We could follow her residuals, you know,” Satoru suggests. He tips his sunglasses down, revealing eyes that gleam with predatory intent. “With the Six Eyes, it’d be a walk in the park.” 

“And then what?” 

“Oh, you know, chat about the weather, latest political scandals, that sort of thing.” 

“You can’t strong-arm yourself through everything in life, Satoru,” Suguru chastises. 

Satoru opens and closes his lips. He folds his arms, scrunches his eyebrows together, and rapidly taps his foot. The shift puts Suguru at ease. Satoru adopts this countenance on the rare occurrence he’s faced with a formidable threat. The serious, almost somber visage speaks to his ironclad resolve. Suguru may have told his companion that he can’t strong-arm himself through everything, but that’s a half-truth; the Gojo clan’s pride can do whatever he pleases. 

It’s consideration of the aftermath that Suguru wishes to instill in his companion. Tempering the arrogance of a God is no easy feat. 

“... She isn’t going anywhere,” Satoru declares, as if any other outcome was blasphemous. 

“She isn’t,” Suguru agrees. Then, he lowers his voice, adding, “We can’t disregard what Ishimoto-san is getting at, though.” 

“Simple — all our girl needs is a good ol’ fashioned intervention.” 

“An ‘intervention,’” Suguru deadpans. “Didn’t you already try that?” 

Satoru smiles in a way Suguru can only describe as dopey, reminiscing on the night you got ‘mad at him for wanting you to be mad at him.’ That’s how Suguru interpreted the detailed account Satoru gave the next morning, anyway. 

(“I wish she would’ve cried, just a little bit; it would’ve made her look extra cute,” Satoru cooed, to which Suguru shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. You’d make her cry just so you could wipe her tears away.”)

Suguru shakes his head. “Here’s what I think — the self-sacrifice in and of itself isn’t the problem. Well, the main problem. There has to be a reason, something personal… identifying that takes priority.” 

A gust rips through the narrow street, howling as it terrorizes store signs and doors with weak hinges. The two strongest sorcerers remain oblivious to the drift. What occupies their mind is greater than any force of nature, insignificant or otherwise. They have the means to challenge natural phenomena itself. And they would, should they deem it an obstacle to their goals. This single-minded determination is what elevates them beyond the rest. 

“I guess the old man has a soft spot for us after all,” Satoru says, referring to Yaga, Suguru guesses.

Breathlessly, he chuckles. “Maybe.” 

Studying Satoru from his peripherals, he silently mulls over the far likelier reality—  

—that Yaga understands Satoru’s potential for saving this world is matched only by his capacity to condemn it. 

-

From a young age, Ieri Shoko found irony everywhere she looked.

It’s prevalent in the medical field she wishes to pursue. When stabbed, it’s better to leave the knife in than immediately pull it out. For an immune system to better defend itself from a virus, it must first be exposed to it in trace amounts. If an appendage becomes too infected, removing that piece of the body is better than keeping it whole. It was you who pointed out this theme extends into the world of jujutsu. 

“You’d think fighting to survive a curse instead of defeating it would be an okay alternative, right?” You had said. “But really… that just means someone else gets to foot the bill. All ‘cause you cheaped out.” 

She regrets not asking you to elaborate. At the time, the observation felt so personal, so intimately interwoven with who you are, that she thought it best to leave it alone. 

Watching you now, lounging on the swing beside her, she’s determined not to repeat her previous mistake. 

“Tired?” 

“Well, yeah,” you laugh. It sounds off. “I wasn’t meant for long flights. It takes everything out of me, y’know?” 

Shoko unsuccessfully digs around her pocket for a lighter. The search ceases when she recalls its inopportune location — left behind in her dorm room in the rush to be the one who reaches you first. Not sure what else to do with her hands, she folds them onto her lap. Meanwhile, you pick at a stray thread on your jeans. 

“I didn’t mean from traveling,” she clarifies. 

“Hm?” 

“How many curses did you exorcise back home?” 

Your fingers go still.

“I dunno… a few?” You shrug, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “If I happen across them, I’m not gonna just let them run amuck. That’d be irresponsible.” 

Your nonchalance comes across as forced. You may be keeping your words lighthearted, but she can tell you’ve dialed up your senses, monitoring her closely. It reminds her of a cornered mouse. It’s then that any lingering doubt over her choices leading up to this moment dispels. Resolve strengthened, she swears to make as much progress as she possible before those two catch on. She felt a bit bad lying about your flight’s time, but felt the situation justified the call. 

“It feels different when they’re close to home, doesn’t it?” 

Shoko’s eyes scan over the lively park before them. There’s a group of children playing with one another, some scouring the grass for bugs and others playing tag. Their guardians watch from a distance, chatting amongst themselves, likely discussing the upcoming poor weather or latest neighborhood scandals. Young couples walk hand in hand along the pathways, cheeks flushed from the joy of experiencing their first love. 

“Encountering a curse is draining. Fighting them, even more so. But when they’re on a street you walk every day, or a few blocks over from your house, you can’t help but start thinking. ‘What if I hadn’t come this way? Would it have hurt people I know? People I love and care about?’”

Her eyes find yours. “‘What if it killed them?’”

You look like you’re going to be sick. 

She ignores how your expression contorts her stomach and continues. “Sorcerers are in the minority, it’s true. So… fighting to survive isn’t selfish. It’s strategic.”

In the distance, the rough silhouette of two individuals grows clearer. The spotlight she commandeered grows fainter with their every step. In what remains of the fading limelight, she considers you. The CC cream that conceals the worst of your exhaustion, how your pupils dilate from high caffeine intake, then your fingers. The keys that when steepled just so, open the future for others at the cost of permanently locking yours. 

She reaches over and gently squeezes your hand. 

“Remember — we won’t be much help to anyone if we’re six feet under. So let’s aim to stay above ground.” 

-

The evening sun sinks into the horizon, demanding acknowledgment in its final moments by dousing all in a fiery hue. 

Your uniform absorbs the brunt of this last stand. The dark fabric devours the waning sunlight, heating you from head to toe. It didn’t fully occur to you that you were back when you walked through the torii gates lining the mountainous path. Nor when you unpacked in your dorm, stuffing your passport away until your next break, where it’ll serve you faithfully again. 

Instead, it was the simple act of putting your uniform on again that made home seem far, far away. 

You’d gotten used to your clothes smelling like your mother’s preferred detergent. It’s a brand you couldn’t find in Japan, sold exclusively in your home country. You wondered what meal your parents were having when you straightened out your collar. If your neighbor ever fixed that rumble their old sedan huffed out as you slipped into your tights. Whether your grandpa knew you’d landed safely when you brushed lint off your skirt. 

The campus atmosphere is serene. Tengen’s barrier is a bulwark against curses, insulating you from any potential threats. Without this assurance, some part of you was always on the defensive, anticipating anything when you slept in your childhood bedroom. It siphoned away your vitality, just like Shoko pointed out. 

You sniffle and kick a rock aside. 

How does it always end up like this?

First Akane, now Shoko, you hug yourself. I just want to protect others. What’s so wrong with that? If I don’t, then who will?

You pause abruptly. 

When Akane began mentoring you, the world as you knew it changed. Suddenly, you were given knowledge no one else was privy to, for they lacked the tools to comprehend it. You’d seen those ‘creatures’, but it was Akane that explained their malevolent nature. What they could do, the pain they inflicted, how defenseless the population at large was against them. 

The shadow that this monstrous threat cast could never be outshone by light. The best you could do was create safe pockets the size of pins in the darkness. That was the extent of your hope, the most bitter pill you’ve ever swallowed.

The lingering specter of Shoko’s reassuring touch prickles along your hand. 

It’s easy to forget you’re not alone anymore after fighting by yourself for so long. 

-

Eventually, you happen upon a clearing near the school’s main grounds. 

The steep inclines surround a sizable outdoor track. This area is known colloquially as the school’s training grounds. You prefer to train in a more secluded, wooded area, but not everyone shares your enthusiasm for subtlety. Namely, the two prodigies who have turned the field into a colosseum that’d rival the battles of ancient Rome. 

You take a seat on the grassy hill and watch what unfolds. 

Your eyes can scarcely follow the blows Suguru and Satoru exchange. Their sparring sessions are unreal — blurring the very fabric of reality. Somehow, they manage all this without using cursed energy. The spectacle you’re witnessing is simply hand-to-hand combat. It’s like watching a film with skipping frames. In a matter of seconds, they can travel a hundred meters and return to their original position. Your brain struggles to process the stimuli your senses are feeding it. 

They were already strong when you met them. But now? The nomenclature doesn’t exist to properly classify them. 

And in the future… 

There’s no telling what highs they’ll reach or the ceilings they’ll shatter. 

Their light is the most dazzling you’ve ever seen.

Within a few minutes, they conclude their training session. Satoru instantly beelines toward you, whereas Suguru cycles through stretches. There’s not even a single drop of sweat on Satoru’s body as he plops to your right. He’s wearing his signature sunglasses, despite the night's looming shadow. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?” Satoru asks. “It’s past your bedtime.”

You punch him lightly on the shoulder. He yelps out an exaggerated ‘ouch!’ rubbing the area to soothe the nonexistent wound. 

Suguru approaches at a far more leisurely pace, sending a wave that you return in kind. 

Satoru, not one to be forgotten, yells out, “Be careful, Suguru! She’s violent!” 

“Only against those who deserve it,” Suguru replies.

Fondness blossoms inside your chest as you laugh. You’d forgotten how simple life feels around them. It’s as if when the three of you are together, you’re swallowed by a pocket dimension, isolated from everyone and everything. Permanently inhabiting this utopia is a temptation. 

Satoru places his hands behind his head and lays onto the ground. “Here I am, potentially out of commission forever, without a single ounce of sympathy to show for it.” 

“We could always settle in court,” you offer. 

Suguru stands before you, hands on his hips. “Or he could finally figure out how to use reverse cursed technique.” 

At this, Satoru shoots back up, his sunglasses falling askew. “Hah? Last I recall, you gave yourself a headache giving it a go. At least I’m not that bad.” 

“Hurdles are necessary to improve. Without any, how do you know you’re truly making progress?” 

Satoru gives him a grossed-out look. “All this philosophizing is gonna turn your hair gray before you hit twenty.” 

“That’s rich, coming from the guy whose hair is already white,” You point out. “What’s that say about you?” 

Suguru muffles his laughter behind his hand. 

Satoru’s quick to overcome his incredulity. “It says that I’m going to spoil the next volume of Inuyasha. Sesshomaru—” 

You cover your ears and sprint off. “Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you…!” 

He chases after you, periodically shouting the names of the main characters right when you think he’s finished. You do your best to block out his voice, running like your life depends on it. He’s hot on your heels, cackling at your expense. After a stretch of silence, you uncover your ears, hesitantly turning around to check if he’s finished his torture. 

You meet Satoru’s gaze. His lips are parted, his eyebrows slightly raised. Your reflection in his dark lenses appears equally perplexed. He straightens his sunglasses and regards you with an unreadable expression. 

“... You’ve gotten faster.” 

The comment is so quiet, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. 

“Hm?” 

“Nothing,” he dismisses, waving you off. “You shoujo-loving types sure take this stuff seriously. It’s almost cultish.” 

“I don’t wanna hear that from the guy who references Digimon like it’s some sorta scripture!” 

“Honda Tohru is a lame heroine.” 

You audibly gasp. “Wh— you take that back!” 

And so it’s your turn to chase Satoru, who, for reasons unknown, is oddly knowledgeable regarding Fruits Basket. 

-

“Could you guys be honest with me about something?” 

“All depends.” 

“Of course.” 

Satoru and Suguru’s responses come out simultaneously, the contents offering little reassurance. You’re not sure what you expected. Nonetheless, you press past the gnawing discomfort, your conversation with Shoko a fresh memory. 

“Did Akane stop by while I was gone?” 

You scrutinize their countenances for involuntary reactions that might betray their inner thoughts. You begin with Satoru, who was in the middle of cleaning his sunglasses when you posed the question. His eyes, which normally brim with mischief, have an eerie calmness about them; like sheets of ice that were once choppy waters. He smiles softly and slips his lenses back into place, undoubtedly aware of the intent behind your stare. 

Then there’s Suguru. He hums, as if finding your inquiry unexpected and not an inevitable point of contention. He’s a more challenging puzzle to decipher than Satoru. With the latter, you can roughly gauge the greater picture, blurry and incomplete as it may be. Suguru, on the other hand, hasn’t given you enough pieces to attempt a solution. 

Satoru continues mulling over your question while Suguru responds, “Is that what’s been worrying you lately?” 

So they picked up on it too, you think. 

Frowning, you shift in your seat. Blades of grass tickle your thighs and you push your skirt down. 

“Er… not that, specifically,” you admit. You feel like you’re surrounded by walls that know just how far to close in to give the impression you might be crushed. “I just… I’ve been thinking. About why I’m here— what I’ll go on to do. And, well…” 

Much to their surprise, you stand, squeeze your eyes shut, and bow ninety degrees. 

“For so long, I’ve carried this burden. The truth is, when I first learned about Null, I was relieved. I’d always have something to rely on in the worst-case scenario. But at the same time… that meant not using it could also be a mistake. You have no idea how much that scared me.” 

You curl your hands up into fists. “I don’t want to think that way anymore. I see it now — have for a while, actually — strength I couldn’t even imagine before. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m in your care. If it’s alright, I want to rely on others, starting with you two.” 

Your heart pounds wildly in the silence that follows. 

Maybe this is selfish too, you think. But I don’t want to be alone anymore. 

You hear Suguru speak your name. It isn’t until he repeats it, his tone kind yet firm, that you straighten yourself and face him. 

Satoru stands further back, scratching his neck. Much to your confusion, a red flush has risen to his cheeks, extending up to his ears. Suguru corrects your staring by taking your face in his hands and redirecting your attention to him. Warmth envelops you. Your faces are inches apart, but somehow, the distance feels nonexistent, like he’s peering into your mind unhindered. 

“Surely, you can dream bigger than that,” Suguru chastises.

“... Eh?” 

“Do you think so little of us?” Satoru grumbles. It almost sounds like he’s pouting. Was he not listening to anything you just said? The sincerity behind your every word? Why are they both acting like you insulted them? 

“Eh?!” 

“I’m glad you’ve come to this realization, but… you don’t have to rely on anyone else. Just us,” Suguru takes a step back, though he keeps one hand cupping your cheek. You feel lightheaded. “After all…” 

“... We’re the strongest.” 

notes:

*this pun actually works decently in english ?? but akane is making a reference to how suguru sounds phonetically similar to すぐ, or sugu, which means 'soon.'

[randomdragonfires]

Kalopsia | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Kalopsia (n.) The delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

SUMMARY | She associates the words with brighter days and happier memories that she’ll never get back. And yet, when he utters them into her ear, they've never sounded more tainted and wrong - but she'll tell herself they aren’t, until the lies become truth.

PAIRING | Daemon Targaryen x Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; smut; DD:DNE; penetrative sex; dubious consent; exhibitionism; forced prostitution; canon typical sexism; infidelity; angst; ambiguous and unclear motives for sex - both Daemon and reader are fucked up people in this story, and there is much about their mental conflict that may be quick to trigger someone. Please read with caution.

WORD COUNT | 8.8k

A/N | This is a dark fic with heavily triggering themes. Please don't hate anon me. Thanks. :)

SHE REMEMBERED THE DAY SHE MET HIM. 

It was a hot summer’s day when the sun had burnt her through her dress, leaving her sweating and reaching for a drink of water every few moments. He was a vision - flying through the skies of Pentos on the Blood Wyrm, with his beautiful wife, the lady Laena Velaryon right behind him as she rode the historic wonder, Vhagar. They were a wandering couple, and talk about them had been rife in the Free Cities - dragon sightings were feared, what with the Rogue Prince’s reckless nature making people assume that he’d bathe them in dragonfire for his personal amusement. 

She remembered seeing them fly out of Pentos the first time, to tour the other Free Cities. This was almost a year ago. By the time they’d come back to reside with the Prince of Pentos, the lady Laena had suspected that she was with child. Based on what she saw of the royal couple, Prince Daemon, in his own way, was appreciative of his wife.

But being appreciative of his wife certainly did not mean that Daemon Targaryen was in any way blind to everything else around him. It was this fact that had led his eyes to her.

A striking purple, and they had met her melancholic, unmemorable ones from where he stood as the Prince of Pentos barked orders and asked her to see to Lady Velaryon’s every need. His gaze held a very peculiar combination of condescension and amusement for those around him, and she was pulled to him, in the same way that fishes were to the sea. Her world seemed to melt as she looked at him in all his Valyrian beauty - it stunned her. 

He took one leisurely glance at her - beginning his perusal of her, neck to navel. His eyes rested for a moment longer between her legs, and she’d never forget the way her thighs quickly met under her skirts in a desperate attempt to keep herself contained.

It had been a long while since she felt anything but the fleeting sense of sadness that had taken over every part of her since she had lost it all and ended up in this city. And now, as Daemon Targaryen lingered - nay, took over her line of sight, she felt something more, more, more. 

She did not know what to think about the slow storm brewing in her mind, so she chose to disregard it for a time. This was royalty, and this entire matter was well and truly beyond her weight. She should not bother with the likes of those who were higher and mightier - those that would never choose her and harm her with no regard.

But the intense wildfire-like heat that passed through her body was hard to ignore, especially given the potent lack of it in the last many years. It scared and excited her in equal measure, and regardless of the possibility of danger, she could not help but be drawn to him. She felt like an ungrateful, wanton whore for lusting after another woman’s husband - a very good woman, she would soon find - but how could she reject the man who had woken her passions once more, after she thought they were long lost to her? All with just a single look, no less?  

It was often said that the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men. With their dragons, intoxicating eyes and intense gazes, she was inclined to agree. 

It was why she brought him his bathwater and helped him with his bath every morning after his dragon ride; why she scrubbed at his scarred skin with the washcloth even though he was in no need of assistance. She cleaned his chambers, and continued to do so even after he’d stepped in and burned her with his stare. Of course it burned, he was the blood of the dragon after all.

She found herself bringing his heated bathwater despite the flight of stairs that she had to brave while carrying the weight. She helped him in and out of his clothes everyday, listening to his commands like a mindless soldier who only did what she was told. She always looked for him, even in a chamber of more than a hundred people - her young girl’s gaze, flitting about - trying to find his spun-silver hair.

Whenever she caught his gaze, he was already looking.

She supposed she'd never get tired of the heat pooling in her belly whenever she was in his presence - or how her hands found their way inside her already dampened smallclothes whenever she pictured him with shut eyes at night time.

Perhaps that’s why she felt like it was a long time coming when he creeped up behind her, hand holding her in place as it snaked around her waist. His palm flattened against her stomach and the other held her neck, squeezing just enough to make the heat rush to her cheek and between her legs. He brought his nose down to the side of her neck, laughing darkly as they breathed each other in, and she let a small whimper escape her lips.

“What took you,” she breathed out before adding, “…so long?” He responded to her meek attempt at a question with a sharp bite to her neck and a growl, effectively silencing her voice and awakening the fire in her once more.

“Don’t be too loud, you’re going to wake my wife,” he whispered before turning her around to meet her eyes.

Those words should have woken her up and brought her to reality. She should have awoken from her wistfulness and tossed her fantasies where they’d bother her no more. This was a married man, a married prince. 

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But the blood rushing through her veins, the excitement of being coveted and central to a man’s gaze - it excited her in ways that she had never been before. The allure of him was hard to ignore, and by the looks of how eagerly his hands were slipping under her haphazardly hiked up skirts, he felt the same way too.

She’d missed this feeling - this feeling of being alive and full of life. The prospect of excitement and a renewed zest for life, after all she had been through, had only pushed her towards him a lot more. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She was blind to the dangers of the man, and she'd never been happier to remain ignorant. She did not want to want him, and she hated that she did. She did not say yes to his command, or emphatically agree. She simply took his lips in hers and sunk her fingers into his hair, reveling in the feel of his rough hands holding her backside in a tight grip.

She may not love him, and she did not like him. But she wanted this, she needed this. She needed to feel something, anything at all. She supposed that there’s something that he wants too - though she does not know what.

She soon found that there was very little in their burgeoning arrangement that would favor her fantasies, and that Daemon Targaryen simply did not care - for anyone.

“WILL YOU BE NEEDING ANYTHING ELSE, MY LADY?”

Laena Velaryon is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women she’s ever laid her eyes on. She is also one of kindest souls she’s ever had the courtesy of encountering - which is why her guilt eats at her tenfold whenever Daemon seeks out her company.

She wants to say no. She wants to say no each time.

Initially, it was an infatuation that was within her control - but the day she had indulged and let her body overshadow her mind, it had become a bit much. Initially, he had sensed her hesitation despite her being welcoming. He’d plied at her with sweet words, each syrupy sweet and meant to break through her doubt. 

She melts each time, her weak will giving in like water slipping through her fingers.

Conflict is a funny thing. Each time his hands pin her wrists above her head as he takes her for all that she is, or when he’d let a finger slip through her smallclothes and glide through her folds, she wants to say no. She wants to be the good girl that her mother believed she was, but the pleasure was too much. The high that he takes her on each time is too much to ignore, too good to pass up on.

She wants to say no. The words wait at her throat, but refuse to tumble out of her lips.

It is wrong, but she wants to feel pleasure. She wants to be reminded that she is a woman worthy of pleasure, and she feels good- no matter how guilt-ridden - each time his cock sinks into her. No other man has wanted and loved her like this before, and despite the horridness of it all, she finds that she cannot say no - no matter how hard she tries. 

However, she doesn't know what he wants. Daemon Targaryen wears his intrigue as well as he does his arrogance and condescension. She never knows what he wants - but she also worries that she may not like what she finds.

She will find out soon.

“That will be all, my sweet,” Laena says. The exhausted smile she wears as she cradles her hugely pregnant belly makes her want to throw herself at her feet and cry for mercy - but she is too in deep. How could she tell Daemon she didn’t want to share his bed anymore? How could she, when his power and famed temper may just harm her? 

I’m sorry your husband fucks me each night. I’m sorry I like it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What right does she have, after allowing it all these times? What right does she have, after enjoying it each time? She doesn't love him, but in those moments, she loves what she feels. The regret that follows is gut-wrenching, but she chooses to indulge each time. It was a blind and burning desire, and it is this very same wave of emotion that compels her to follow his instructions, blind and eager to please.

A servant walks into the room and looks towards the window, eyes flitting about and nervous. “The Prince Daemon has asked to see you, lady.” Her tone is apologetic, and when Laena Velaryon stands, she feels herself crumble to a thousand pieces. When she is half-stood, the Valyrian beauty realizes it is not her that her husband wants to see tonight.

“Go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” she murmurs. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she sits back down, the weight of the impending babe taking a toll on her.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

She is ashamed of the peculiar heat pooling in her belly as she walks out, unable to meet Lady Laena’s eyes. The walk to Daemon’s chambers has her head facing the floor as some of the other servants eye her and whisper the words.

Homewrecker. Whore. Concubine.

She wonders about how she could still want him after all the irreparable damage that she’s taken in her mind. She wonders when her lack of spine would dissipate, and when she’d be able to reject him outwardly and speak her mind. She wonders when she’d be able to make up her mind and stand by her decision.

She hates that she enjoys it, she hates that she’s at the center of it all. But he brings her to her peak effortlessly and with such intensity that she forgets for a moment, for just a moment, how wrong all of this is.

She pushes the door open and gulps at the sight of a half naked Daemon Targaryen sitting at the edge of his bed, hands pumping his cock with no urgency. The languid movements and his haphazard state of undress - his linen undershirt doing little to hide the lithe muscles underneath - make her head spin. He is yet to touch her.

She watches, his presence magnetic as he pulls her attention easier than he should. His gaze then finds hers as she stands frozen near the door, his breath a mangled mix of moans and groans as his hand refuses to relent. He looks at her as he continues his movements on his cock, and her thighs slap together while she folds her hands just below her breasts, pushing them up above the neckline of her dress.

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of her face as she makes her way to him, each step feeling labored and long as she positions herself between his legs. Her view of his cock is undisturbed and clear, and she hates that it is the most beautiful one that she’s ever seen. Slightly leaning to the left, the girth of it impresses her each time he pushes into her, making her feel fuller than ever before.

She continues to watch his hands move, movements as slow as ever. Her eyes are fixated upon the light silver hair that marked a path below his abdomen, and the veins that marked their way through his erect cock. The glistening white pearly drops of seed on the tip called to her, and her mouth began to water. 

“Take it” - he grunts through his pleasure - “off.”

She’s been in this position long enough to know what it means.It is one thing to lust after a man from afar, and another to be fucked by him. It is neither safe, nor ideal for her to be using her mouth on a Westerosi Prince whose wife was only one door away. And yet, they’ve been giving each other company for almost a year. 

She works through the laces on her front one by one, her focus on his almost black, dilated pupils. He wants her, and she wants him. It is seemingly simple, and yet it is the most complicated entanglement she has ever known.

He’s never been the most patient man to grace these halls, and it is evident as he stops the hand on his cock and stands up. He reaches for the dagger on a tray of fruit by the table, and swiftly cuts through the loops in a series of flicks. Each time the dagger cut through, the stray threads flew about and he dusted them off with the same disregard and impatience. 

“You’re going to take my cock in your mouth like the good girl that you are,” he growls. Candlelight illuminates his face as his dagger makes its way through the fabric, revealing her soft skin and exposing her breasts to him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And yet, as the cool metal of his dagger grazes over her nipple ever so slightly, the fire in her burns bright. Her fear dictates that she say no and run before it can spiral into something beyond her control, but the faint waves of pleasure that cause the dampness between her thighs  keeps her there - almost as though her legs are stuck in quicksand.

The dress pools at her feet and she steps out of it, his hurried hands removing her shift. And when they stand, facing each other - and she wishes this was something else.

She wishes this was a simple and innocent love affair. She wishes that this was a man she could love, one that would love her just the way she would. She wishes that there was more comfort to be gained from this than the highs of the pleasure in itself - It will never be enough for her.

She reaches forward and kisses him flush on the lips, devouring his as she slips her tongue in. He bites into her lip and she tastes the copper of the blood bubbling through; he grabs her by the hair and pulls her up to meet his eye. “I said -”

“Please. Please, just… Please. Let me have this.”

He leans back and assesses her for just a moment before swooping in and taking her lips in his, no questions asked. And when he kisses her so, she can try to convince her little girl’s heart that this - what they have - is a lot more beautiful than it is meant to be.

The kiss makes her think that this is what the heavens would feel like, should she ever manage to meet the caress of a lover who’d love like she could, like she wants. A gentle and calm hand, a kind disposition that would care.  But it does not last long. He is quick to wrangle her mouth away and join her forehead to his, breathing in the scent of her as she closes her eyes and wonders how this could ever be what she wants, wrestling with the contrasting realization that she has not been loved like this, not ever.

But is this love, really? This cannot possibly be love. No. She’s known love before. It is simple, easy and comforting. Nothing about this is. 

She wants it just the same.

It is this thought that occupies her mind as she gets down on her knees. The stone cold floor and the ridges grate at her knees almost immediately, moving slightly as she bobs her head back and forth. She slowly but surely adjusts to his length, choking a little and allowing the spit to pool in her mouth, dripping down to her chin by the side of her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d have mistaken him gently wiping it off with the tip of his thumb as affection.

She grabs his thigh with one hand and massages his stones with the other, her head continuing to bob back and forth relentlessly. His hands grasp at her hair, keeping the stray strands at bay as she reminds herself to breathe through her nose. She moves almost mechanically, forgetting him and his towering figure as she wonders. What do I look like to him? On my knees and eyes pooling with tears? 

It is a common saying among the common folk - A King’s child will be royalty, and a whore’s child will be a whore. She is the daughter of a whore, and she hates that the words may hold true for her too. 

Mama wanted for me to be more. Dignified and happy. She should not have died and left me alone.

She remembers a time when her mother had brought a friend of hers from the whorehouse back home. Her mother was a favorite amongst the nobility, and she’d entertained both the then-Prince Viserys and Daemon.

She’d become with child soon after, and had her. The idea of either man possibly being her father is sickening to her, given the position she now finds herself in. Of course, it will not matter much to them, with their Valyrian blood and queer customs - but it makes her want to cry her eyes out and worry about the kind of sickness she must inhibit to want Daemon Targaryen as much as she does despite the knowledge, despite the wrongness of it all. Her only consolation is that she has no Valyrian features. There is no way of knowing for sure, and she chooses not to entertain these thoughts while being aided by this realization. 

“Good girl. Go on,” he moans. His voice immediately brings her out of her reverie, and the words are enough to send her conflicted conscience spinning on its head.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

Her mother called her a good girl many times before she died. The connotations of the word when they tumble out of Daemon’s lips make her want to retch. He probably believes that the tears are because of her choking on him, but she knows.

Those words meant much and more to her once upon a time, but not anymore. The loss hurts her more than it should. A lost childhood, a happiness that slipped through her fingers through no fault of her own. A much happier and carefree time that is now out of her grasp.

Her thoughts are interrupted when Daemon pulls her up - a thread of spit flowing out of her lips as she adjusts to an empty mouth - and pushes her, caging her between him and the cold stone wall.

Good girl, good girl, good girl. 

WHENEVER SHE THOUGHT OF THE TIMES that she got called a good girl, her mother was always the first to come to mind.

The city of King's Landing - she’d spent almost her entire life there before running onto the ship to Pentos - sprawled around them like a tapestry woven from the threads of countless lives. Towering structures of stone reached for the heavens, casting long shadows that danced across cobblestone streets worn smooth by time. The bustling crowd, a mosaic of colors and voices, flowed like a river through the labyrinthine alleys. The scent of roasted meats, exotic spices, and the ever-present stench of refuse mingled in the air, creating a symphony of odors that was, somehow, comforting in its familiarity.

Her mother worked at a whorehouse nestled amidst the chaotic and filthy heart of the Street of Silk. It was a place where laughter and merriment battled with sorrow and desperation, where secrets and pleasures were shared over wine, closed curtains and weak beds. As a child, she was vaguely aware of the nature of her mother's work, but she didn't fully grasp its complexities. What she did understand was that her mother often came home weary, her shoulders burdened by the weight of the world - or by bite marks and blooming violet bruises.

"Why would anybody bite you there, Mama?" she had asked once. Her mother had only chuckled, but she did not look happy. It always worried her. The bites always looked red, angry and painful.

It was the same bite mark and a line of violet bruises on her mother’s shoulder that she focused on today as she overheard her speak to her friend - another whore who worked at the same whorehouse. She watched as her mother exchanged quiet words with her friend, their voices a hushed whisper as they discussed their day.

“He does something magical with his mouth, Brenna. You would not believe it!” Her mother’s friend looked very happy as she giggled and recounted a story that she caught pieces and fragments of. The mother herself did not look happy, however - the little girl knew when her mother wasn’t happy. Don’t ask how, she simply did.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The evening sun painted the walls with warm hues, and as the other woman departed, her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. a far-off look in her eyes and a heavy sigh on her lips. 

Without a word, she fetched a basin of water, warm and soothing, and knelt by her mother’s side. Gently, the child removed her boots and began to massage her mother’s tired feet, her small, untrained hands working diligently to ease the discomfort to the best of her ability. The older woman closed her eyes, and a soft smile graced her lips as the tension in her muscles began to melt away.

In that moment, she saw her mother as more than just a tired whore; she saw her as a woman who carried the weight of their little world on her shoulders. The love she felt for her was immense, and it swelled within the child like a river after a storm. But the bite marks and the bruises still looked painful, and they still scared her.

And so, the child’s curiosity got the better of her, and she let the question slip from her innocent lips. "Will I have to work there too when I'm grown up? At the whorehouse?"

Her mother’s eyes flickered open, and a shadow of sadness crossed her face, barely noticeable but unmistakably obvious to her daughter’s young heart. She took a deep breath and then, with a gentle smile, replied, “Perhaps you won’t have to. Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me."

"But I love you a lot, Mama," the young girl said, her voice filled with innocence and devotion.

With a tender sigh, her mother pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her as if to shield her from the harsh world beyond that she was yet to see. 

If only.

"And I love you, my sweet child," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You are such a good girl. You’re my little girl."

In that moment, the girl felt a profound sense of pride in being her mother’s daughter, in the simple act of bringing comfort to her tired soul. The city of King's Landing may have been a tumultuous sea of chaos, but in that room, with her mother's arms around her, she found her anchor, her safe harbor, and a love that she hoped would guide her through any storm.

HER BACK PRESSING INTO THE STONE WALL MAKES HER SHUDDER.

The cold sensation grating against her skin and the eerie chill of the night air make her weak in the knees. Daemon Targaryen’s cock moves against her cunt like it belongs there and nowhere else - the irony of that thought while his wife waits for him in her chambers close by is not lost on her, but she cannot deny how strongly she feels that the man is made for her.

Even if he truly was not.

His lips are immediately on hers, and she devours them for all that they are worth. She enjoys being kissed - it helps her feel wanted by him.

Even if she knew he did not.

Her hands move to the hem of Daemon’s linen undershirt, pushing it up, up, up until it is carelessly thrown halfway across the chamber. She only has one moment to get a look at his naked figure before he pushes against her and cages her between his towering figure and the wall once more. The feeling of heat passing through the pair of them and the smell of sweat and sex is intoxicating to her in a way that she struggles to put into words. Her cunt is wet with arousal as she whimpers into the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth. 

Time stops when they kiss. She supposes it is a beautiful thing, no matter how wrong it was.

Do things have to be right for them to be beautiful anyhow?

Her breasts are flush against his chest as he takes a hold of them, pinching her nipples until they hurt and she gasps into his mouth. He does not stop, however - her pain only seems to spurn him more, and she is ashamed to find that she is aroused as well. One of her hands travels above his neck and she tightly grips onto the root of his hair, pulling until he is in just as much pain and pleasure as she is. The other moves over the scarred planes of his back, almost as though she was mapping out a route to paradise.

The feeling of his cock pushing against her wet cunt sends waves of pleasure coursing through her, the blood rushing to her head and making her feel hazy. She lets the touches take her to the Seven hells - both the man and the circumstances making that their only possible destination.

She wonders if Laena Velaryon wishes for that too.

His cock pushes into her, stretching her walls so wide that she fears he may just split her into two. She needs a moment to adjust and he is generous enough to let her have it as his lips descend onto her neck, leaving her staring blankly at the bed as she breathes heavily. She cranes her neck just a little as she lets his cock settle in her.

And then, he moves.

She often believes that she lives with an aching sense of yearning and pushes through each day finding something to leave her feeling fulfilled. It is an empty feeling really, and the only time she ever feels like she is not a living shell of a woman is when he takes her. The feeling of being filled by him is one that always takes her by surprise - but unlike the other times that she's been taken unawares, this is something she welcomes.

“Yne drējī sȳrī jiōrā, talus. Sepār otāptan, sepār ñuhys ēdruryssy iemnȳ.” [You take me so well, niece. Just as I believed you would, just as I imagined.]

He always says these words whenever he enters her, and she never manages to retain them long enough to ask what they mean - the high of her peak always leaves her mind feeling like melted gold, taking away any chance for coherent conversation. 

Is he referring to someone? Is he appreciating her? Is he saying that he loves her? Somehow, she knows it is not the latter. She won’t have to try and remember to ask tonight - she would find out soon what it is he has gotten out of this all these days.

Every thrust is punctuated by grunts and moans, with both of them hungry for more. She meets every single one of his harsh thrusts as one of her hands slips in between them both, circling and pressing onto her pearl like her entire life was dependent on the pleasure that came from it.

It made sense. The pleasure he gives her each time is what keeps her alive.

Each brush of his flush pink tip against a rough spot inside her cunt makes her eyes roll back in pleasure. He hits it with each thrust as he pounds into her, face always wearing a mask of pursuit - but of what?

What does he want from her?

Her hand on her pearl and his cock in her is swiftly building a pool of heat in her belly - no, not the blazing kind, but a warm kind. It builds, builds, builds and she flies, flies, flies until she can’t go any higher, and she lets herself go limp in his arms as her peak takes over her entire being. 

“That’s it….” He grunts, pushing into her while punctuating each thrust with his words as he relentlessly pushes into her. “Good girl. Dāeremās, sȳres riñus iksā.” [Let go, you’re a good girl.]

She sees red as the pleasure washes over her, vision becoming hazy and rendering her incoherent for many a moment before she manages to bring herself back down to earth. And as the sights around her become clear again, she clings onto him and breathes while looking over his shoulder.

The world looks newer and brighter each time she comes down from the highs that he causes. And in this moment, his last words hit her like the stone wall that she stands in front of.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

How can a pair of words remind her of what she was then and is now, all at the same time? How can these words hold so much power that they’d coax her into paradise and leave her there, lost and wanting for more, more, more?

She leans back and holds herself straight, looking into his eyes for only a short moment as she gathers herself. It is a deep sea of bright violet and she drowns, drowns, drowns.

She's been drowning in him and trying to catch her breath for a long while now. She's not sure if she wants to be saved - she wants a hand, and pushes it off too.

What does that mean for her?

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

The memory forms in her mind as Daemon Targaryen moves them both and turns her around to make her see out the window - fully naked. She braces herself with two palms holding onto either sides of the window as he pulls her backside to him and spreads her wide, leaving her glistening and sensitive cunt open for him to take once more. His hand moves almost softly over her rear as he enters her once more, this time purely to chase his own release.

“Good girl.”

KING’S LANDING WAS BUSTLING WITH TRAVELERS THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, and she was now fourteen summers old.

She had blossomed into womanhood, her youth adorned with beauty and a vague innocence - yet tarnished by the harsh realities of her life. She toiled at a tavern, where raucous patrons screamed sweet syrupy words at her, attempting to lure her away with their promises. 

“I’ll show you a good time, lass! C’mere!” The man at the table said, patting his thighs and indicating that he’d like for her to sit on his lap.

She had witnessed her own mother endure such advances, and now, as a grown woman, she was the object of many a man’s desire. She was both confused and intrigued, for the attention made feel disgusted yet wanted at the same time.

On one seemingly uneventful day, she counted her earnings - four copper pennies - and began to try and do the addition to determine how much more she would need to settle her mother's debt with the ominous madame of the whorehouse that her mother worked at. Her brother was meant to bring home his pay too tonight, and the sum of their combined efforts held the promise of lifting their family from the pit of debt that had ensnared them. As she left the tavern to head home, the weight of her responsibilities hung heavily upon her young shoulders.

Along her path back home, she encountered a pair of inebriated travelers, their intentions dark and menacing. They seized her arm, grip threatening to harm her fragile spirit. In the midst of her fear, a figure emerged from the shadows, a protector amidst the dangerous chaos. It was Brynden, her brother’s Riverlander friend - she has secretly admired him for years. As she held onto the stone walls of the roads for dear life, he  confronted the drunken men and drove them away from her.

She could not help the slight blush on her face as he checked if she was alright. Her mother once told her that she might find a husband that would love her - is this what love is?

Her young heart believed that it was.

Once he was sure that she was alright, Brynden brought her the news that he’d wanted to tell her. Her brother, it appeared, had squandered his earnings on ale once more and now lay incapacitated on the side of the Street of Silk after finishing an afternoon at a whorehouse. Determined to shield her mother from disappointment, she rushed to her brother's side, her heart pounding with a fervent resolve.

The smell of baked treats and food soon morphed into fragrant yet strong oils, wafting from half-naked women hoping to get a man to pay for their cunts. As she looked around, she finally found the whorehouse that her brother frequented. 

She found him in a pitiful state, his speech slurred and incoherent as he mumbled in his inebriated stupor. Anguish welled within her; he would not be bringing any money home this time either. But despite her frustration, she could not help but love him. He was her brother, and the bonds of blood ran deep.

Gently, she guided him through the winding streets, their journey fraught with the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainty of their future. He babbled on, his words a testament to his gratitude and admiration for her sense of duty. 

“You’re a good girl, sister,” he’d said, his voice trembling with affection. “Good girl.” She pressed a tender kiss upon his sweaty forehead, her love for her brother transcending any and all disappointments. 

As the night unfolded into dawn, she herself succumbed to the embrace of sleep, her brother beside her, a fragile moment of solace amidst the tumult of their lives. When she awoke, he was gone, vanished into the shadows of the city, never to be seen again. Her heart ached with longing, but she never harbored resentment. She waited, and in her waiting, she remained faithful to the last words her brother had spoken to her. 

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

In the years that followed, she missed him every day. Her mother's health deteriorated, the weight of their struggles taking a toll. But she persevered, striving to be the good girl her brother believed her to be, even in his absence. 

Those two words became a guiding light, a reminder of the love they shared, of what she always hoped to be.

THE COLD AIR HITS HER SQUARE IN THE CHEST, and she is made aware of how exposed she is.

Daemon’s apartments are located at the topmost floors of the Prince of Pentos’ home. From where she stands, with her naked figure holding onto either side of the window as he takes her from behind, she has a clear view of the city at night. Logs of fire are lit and fitted onto stone walls on the roads, and the blurred fiery orange is visible to her as she looks down at the city that saved her. Any passerby close to her can crane their neck up just a little, and see her naked in all her glory, from neck to navel. 

Her breasts bounce as Daemon’s cock moves in and out, shining in the moonlight that her figure now obstructs, keeping the light from entering the dimly lit chamber. She lets out a strangled moan as he bullies her spot with each thrust, grunting and moaning in a mix of pleasure and exertion. The sweaty sheen on her forehead dries in the chill of the night air, and her line of sight is unstable with the way her head moves with the rest of her body.

“You like this, don’t you? For the entire world to see you spread out and wanting like this…” he says, with his lips nibbling on her ear enough to make her scream. “For them to know that you are mine. Fuck, fu-uuck!”

Mine, mine, mine. 

Is it such a bad thing to be? In this moment, as she rolls her eyes back at wave after wave of pleasure and the rapid heat blooming in her belly once more, she supposes it is. She will hate herself for wanting this when they are done for the night - but she’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

Or burn it.

“Fuck,” she whispers as she loses herself. The shame of being put on display for every common man and woman to see is non-existent, but her heart drops at how she hates that she likes it.

A whore’s daughter is a whore too. How quickly had she given in, after all that she had done to escape a fate that wasn’t her doing?

With one particular thrust, she pushes forward a bit more than expected. She worries that she’s going to fall, fall, fall - the drop would be deathly steep and long.

She imagines what the fall would be like if her grip wasn’t tight. Her naked form falling down with her hands unable to find any purchase, flailing about as she is suspended in the air. She’d probably see all the bricks and windows in close view - perhaps, someone leaning against another window may scream as they notice her falling to what she hopes would be death, naked as her name day.

Would she be able to live it through if she miraculously and unfortunately survived that fall?

Almost as though he sensed her fear of slipping, Daemon’s hands move away from the loose grip they have on her waist. One hand snakes around her breasts and his forearm presses into her pebbled peaks, while the other cups her cunt and covers it from the cold completely. A fresh wave of arousal takes over her as he groans at the wetness that now coats his palm. The sudden warmth of his hand has her whining and moaning for more, and she moves, riding against his palm, wanting for more, more, more. It would seem that they are both insatiable tonight.

Daemon picks up the pace, his movements speeding up as she senses his desperation for release. She feels his cock hit her all the way up to her lower belly as the coil builds once more, giving her the excitement as she anticipates the sweet pleasure of release once more. She almost gives in right then, knees buckling and legs almost melting as she feels herself fly high, higher and higher still once more. Her peak washes over her in an instant as he pushes deep, her cunt only protected from the stone wall below the window by his palm.

It is a particularly long wave of pleasure that takes over her, making the hairs on her body stand upright as she struggles to stand on her own. Fire courses through her veins and her face is flushed as she finally smiles, drinking in the intense pleasure as Daemon’s thrusts get slower and slower until he spills in her too - a mix of grunts and moans as he falls apart.

The heady mix of sweat, slick and seed dripping down her thighs is enough to make her hazy and feel light in the head. Her head seems as though it is filled with cotton as her thighs quiver, making her experience relief like never before and she wants to turn and kiss him, hope to let the delusion that he loves her fester in her head a bit more and give herself the luxury of feeling genuinely loved for just a while as he-

“Good girl, Rhaenyra.”

His hands have moved away and he quickly pulls out of her, making her move forward. The stone wall hits the dark mound covering her cunt as she winces at the sudden emptiness - from both between her legs and her heart.

She’s lost her home, her memories, her happier days and a life that she loved. She’s lost enough and more for a lifetime. Daemon was never hers to be considered a loss, and she knows it too. And yet, as the realization that even his sex-addled, ill-meant compliments weren’t hers to own washes over her, she finds a lone tear slipping from her eye.

The salty taste on her lips feels like home.

Good girl, he’d said. To whom was he saying it, really?

TWO YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE HER BROTHER WALKED AWAY FROM THEIR LIVES, leaving an empty space that seemed impossible to fill. She was now a fully grown woman who was struggling to make ends meet in the bustling streets of King's Landing. Life had grown harsher with each passing day, and now, a shadow of illness loomed over their humble home.

Her mother had fallen ill, a fever that refused to break. She was too sick to continue working at the whorehouse, so they lived on scraps while the young girl’s earnings went toward settling their debts. She couldn't afford the services of a maester for her mother in the capital city, and the local healer's herbs offered little solace. Still, she continued to scrape together every copper she could find, pouring her earnings into the apothecary's pouch in a desperate attempt to buy her mother some time and relief.

Debt was a relentless specter in their lives. The madame of the local whorehouse hounded them incessantly, demanding the repayment of their debts. Her once cozy home felt increasingly suffocating, its walls closing in around them as they fought to survive.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, she returned home to a sight that sent a chill down her spine. Her mother appeared more sickly than usual, her brow damp with fevered sweat. She rushed to her mother’s side, her heart pounding with fear. She pressed her palm to her mother's forehead and felt the searing heat.

In her delirious state, her mother noticed her efforts to help and laughed softly, her voice a mere whisper. "Thank you my love, you’re a good girl," she murmured weakly, her eyes glazed with fever. The girl's heart ached, and she did what little she could to ease her mother's suffering. She prepared a hot bowl of soup and fed it to her mother, tears welling in her eyes as she watched the warm liquid spill from her mother's lips.

Good girl. The last words her mother had said to her. 

The night passed in anxious vigil, but by morning, her mother was gone. She had wept bitterly, her tears soaking the tattered bed linens that held the memory of happier times.

Days later, the madame of the whorehouse came knocking, a cruel glint in her eyes. She had no sympathy for the loss, only an insistence that the debt must be paid. With ruthless determination, she thrust the girl into her mother's role, forcing her to walk a path that her mother had promised she’d never have to.

“Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me,” her mother had said once. The words had no power or weight as she braced herself to welcome the lustful drunks of King’s Landing with a closed heart and open legs.

Distressed and terrified, the girl found herself in a living nightmare. The once-bustling brothel became her prison, and her innocence was sacrificed to repay a debt she had not incurred. As the first man walked through the doors that fateful night, she realized that her life had taken a dark and irreversible turn, and there was no escape from the cruelty of King's Landing's unforgiving streets.

She remembered looking at the ceiling as she whimpered, the pain of being taken for the first time making her well up in earnest. The bed made a series of creaking sounds as she let him have his way with her, and the gold coin that he’d flicked at her abdomen afterward shined like nothing she’d ever seen before.

“Gold?” she whimpered, unable to recognize the shiny metal. She looked at the coin in awe, and the man laughed cruelly. 

“Maiden whores are worth more than the usual,” he said. 

In all her years living in the stink of the city, she’d never felt dirty - but she did now.

With each night, she caged her heart and saved up the money. On some days, it’d be a penny and on some others, it’d be a silver stag. Every coin saved would buy her escape and freedom. And one night, she finally ran. 

Five silver stags for a journey aboard the first ship she could find. To Pentos.

Her job as a chambermaid at the Prince of Pentos’s home came to her as a kitchen maid took pity and took her in. For months, she’d safely worked and made more money. They provided her with a little chamber that she shared with the other maids, and food so her belly would never feel empty. She’d escaped the brothel and she wanted to believe that she’d made her mother proud. She didn’t know if she was happy, but she was her own person again - it had to count for something, regardless of how empty she felt.

Three months later, a silver-haired Rogue Prince made his descent on the palace grounds, atop the most terrifying dragon she’d ever seen - awakening what was dead in her once more.

DESPITE HOW ROUGHLY HE’D HANDLED HER JUST MOMENTS BEFORE, she felt as though she’d been doused with cold water.

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra.

She’d believed that she was a blot of shame on Laena Velaryon’s marriage, but it would seem that a silver-haired princess - the Realm’s Delight, his niece - was doing far worse in her absence.

Had he been taking her from behind, hoping against hope that if he closed his eyes and thrusted enough, he’d be able to picture her? 

She turns around, the thrill of being put on display while in the throes of pleasure wearing off of her. She walks over to the table near the fireplace with unsteady steps, and slips on the robe that he’d discarded - possibly before she’d stepped in. The wine pitcher invites her with open arms, offering her the comfort of ignorance and forgetfulness as she tries to wrap her head around finally finding out what he’s wanted all this time.

She wanted to be able to feel something, and he wanted to feel her. Neither of them wanted each other, and she supposes that the field is now even. Somehow, she feels a bit more powerful with the knowledge that she wasn’t just someone that he took mindlessly, but was someone who helped him satisfy what she now clearly sees as his guilty desires.

She must have known. Rumors of whores being asked to call him uncle as he fucked them dizzy have floated about before - she thought they were lies, but now she’s seen firsthand how true they are.

He was married to a woman whom he probably wishes was someone else. He was straying from his marriage vows with another woman, not even the one who he wished for. She wonders if Rhaenyra Targaryen knows how deeply she is wanted and loved. 

She wonders if she will ever be loved the same way. A whore's daughter will also be a whore. Is she a whore now? Has she become what she tried to escape? And worse - does she genuinely enjoy it? 

They accompany each other in silence, the only noise being the cacophony of thoughts in their own heads. He slips into his soft trousers and sits on the edge of the bed as she passes him a goblet of wine. She sits opposite him whilst nursing her own goblet, simmering in her thoughts as she muses about her life’s journey - from a mere happy tavern wench to a prince’s solemn bed warmer.

There is a knock on the door that brings both of them out of their reverie. The servant slips in when Daemon mutters his permission and she takes in the sight of them both before looking to the floor and murmuring words that are inaudible.

“Speak up, girl,” he says. As the servant maid breathes in, she has a startling realization. His Valyrian words, the ones that she did not recognize or understand - were they for Rhaenyra too? She does not plan on asking. She supposes she’ll never know.

“Lady Laena has begun her labors, Prince Daemon.”

The servant scurries out, leaving the door half open as Daemon throws his head into his hands. She sets the goblet aside and stands in front of him, taking his head in her arms and letting it rest on her robe-clad abdomen. Her hands run over his hair in a soothing motion, almost in a lover’s embrace. Almost.

In this moment, she can tell herself that what they have is more than just sin and adultery. In this moment, she’ll tell herself that what they have is not dirty, but beautiful. 

“Go. She needs you,” she murmurs, the words once again reminding her of the precarious position she finds herself in. He walks away after dressing himself, and in the wee hours of the morning, the Prince and his wife welcome twin daughters - Baela and Rhaena.

Only four days later, she finds herself being summoned to his private apartments once more. She is now about to fuck a man who had not one, not two, but three girls in his life that he would disregard when he takes her - all in delusional pursuit of a woman who is half a world away. She hates what she is about to do, and she hates that she is already wet and wanting. 

She wants him. Despite it all, she wants him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Her mother and brother called her a good girl, once upon a time. Would they say the same about her now?

Somehow, she knows that the answer is not something she'd want to hear.

NO TAG LIST. Please follow @randomdragonfics and turn on post notifications for all my fic updates!

MASTERLIST

[faerygrant]

knee socks - carmen berzatto x waitress reader

summary: four discoveries come about your and carmens secret relationship; he’s very into knee socks, you’re acquainted with a staff member he has a tricky relationship with, he can be possessive and weirdly enough he likes being called daddy?

You’d stayed back last night to help Carmen, despite the raging headache that had caused you to have to take a 30 minute break from waiting tables just to rest your head. Carmen appreciated that, and was not shy in showing you. Once he’d insured everyone had gone home for the night, doors locked and safety measures taken care of, he had come into the office and kissed you softly, before walking you to your apartment. Where things had escalated, resulting in you falling asleep stuffed and sated and Carmy going home with a pair of your panties.

Today however you felt refreshed, you’d woken up at the crack of dawn, showered, threw on your uniform and decided you’d wear a pair of knee socks due to the cold fall weather. You arrived to the usual chaos of The bear, Tina and Sydney getting started on prep, Marcus unloading the batter he’d made the night before and Richie barking orders at your fellow waitstaff about today’s schedule. Carmy however wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so you assumed he was in his office going over stock orders or doing payroll.

“Hey, you look pretty good this morning princess” Rich or Richie to everyone else, whispers into your ears.

“Don’t be gross Rich.” You mumble, grabbing your apron and tying it around your waist as he mockingly smiled back at you.

“Damn can’t even give out compliments anymore.” He throws his hands up in mock self defence.

Your and Richie’s relationship was simple, he was a longtime friend of your brothers and had always been mockingly flirty and playful with you, occasionally you’d reciprocate the flirtyness but it was all in good fun. Carmy however hated it, so much so that he’d ensure he did his best to put a distance between you two most of the time.

As the day went on Carmen would make subtle appearances from the office, coming into the kitchen to help Sydney with recipes she was working on, answering some of Tina’s questions, giving Marcus the green-light on some new dessert ideas, the works. But what you noticed from these appearances were the glances he kept making towards you, or specifically towards your legs. Until it finally hit you, it was the knee socks.

-

Carmen couldn’t think straight with the way you were just casually waiting tables while looking like a goddess. Your uniform clung so nicely to your body, your smile ever so bright and those god damned knee socks. He was convinced you were trying to send him into cardiac arrest. He’d never even known he had a thing for those until today and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste.

carmen 🐻

You busy right now?

you

Kinda, why?

carmen 🐻

Need your help in the office, now.

you

Alright, coming

-

"Hi" you smiled shyly, walking up to his desk and taking a seat on one of the chairs opposite his desk.

"Come 'ere " he says lowly, beckoning you forward with two fingers. You slowly get out of the chair and make your way behind the desk to his side.

"Hi, again" you say as you look down at him, with a sweet smile on your face.

"Hey, feelin' any better, since last night?" He questions as he turns his chair to face you and pulls you in between his legs, his hands holding your hips in place.

"Y-yeah a little, thank you by the way" you reply softly, flustered by the touch he was so lovingly giving you.

"Your welcome, just wanted to make sure you were alright, it was so worth it" he smiled as his hands began to roam, up and down your hips.

"Wh- why was it worth it?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper, as you look down at him though your lashes.

"I got to kiss you, touch you, and keep your panties" he smirked at the last part, knowing it was going to annoy you.

"Thanks for reminding me to kick you for that by the way." You playfully swat his shoulder and he fakes a pout. You began laughing at him.

"What?" He asks, curiously.

"Nothing" you smile as you lift your hands to play with his hair.

"No tell me" he insists, as he squeezes your hips and pulls you down, to straddle him.

"Mmm, it's just I didn't expect you to be such a softie" you smile as you move down on him a little harder, to feel his crotch.

"Of fuck- I" he tries talking but the feeling of you pressed down against him is too much.

"Fuck-“ he says your name “you're gonna kill me" he replies as he pushes his hips against you and you feel his hard on.

“These knee socks have been killing me all day, did you wear em just f’me?” He grunts the last part.

“I did, wanted to impress you.” You smile, wiggling into him.

“It worked, I’m fuckin impressed and so hard f’you.” He smiles into a kiss he plants on your lips.

"I want you now, please daddy" you weren't sure where the 'daddy' came from, but honestly you didn’t care at this point, you needed him. His eyes widen and you're pretty sure you feel him get even harder once the word leaves your mouth.

"I'm your daddy?" He questions you with a smirk on his face.

"Ye-yeah, daddy" you whispered as you continue to grind down on him.

"That's right, I'm your daddy, keep grinding on your daddy till you cum" he groans, face all red.

"Mmmm" you whisper against his neck as you continue. Just as you feel him moving to reposition you, the phone in his office begins to ring. You look up at him and he shakes his head.

"Leave it, keep goin" he groans as he pulls you down, once more. You're so close to your climax when the phone rings again.

"Mmm, just answer it" you groan as you attempt to get off him, he however pulls you back down and answers the phone.

"What?"

"Ok, and?"

"Fine"

"I'll send her in"

He slams the phone back down and kisses you hungrily once more. You oblige and bring your hands up to his hair.

"Who was it?" You ask, pulling back from the kiss.

"Dumbass Richie, he wants to see you, claims one the regulars is here and only you can help him service them" he spits, you can tell he’s annoyed by Richie’s interruption.

"Rich’s always been quite the mood stealer" you smile, as he kisses your neck lightly.

"Rich?" He questions as he pulls back from your neck and looks up at you.

"Yeah, Rich?" You reply confused, had you said the wrong thing?

"Why the fuck, do you call him that?" He asks angrily, as he lets go of your waist. Alright so Carmy’s moods did always change quickly, noted.

"He's a family friend, I've known him since I was like 18 he's like a brother to me, at-least that's how I feel about him." You reply, whilst putting his hands back on your waist.

"Alright then, Good" he says refusing to smile.

"Why the long face, hmmm?" You question as you smile at him.

"I don't want anyone else to have you, I'm territorial, possessive, I don't know call it what you want but you're mine now and I don't need anyone getting in the way of that" he smirks.

"Mmmm, I just loveeee being owned by men, it's so empowering" you say sarcastically.

"I don't mean it in that way, you know that" says Carmy quickly, afraid you misunderstood him.

"I'm just fucking with you, and this may sound a bit anti-feminist, but I like the thought of belonging to you" you whisper into his ear, leaving him groaning.

"Alright we'll, Rich’s waiting for me, bye Carmy" you say as you try to get off of him. His grip however is too strong and he manages to pull you back down.

"I want to take you out for dinner tomorrow night, somewhere nice but chill ,not too fancy." He says shyly.

"I- I would love too, also not too fancy? this doesn't sound like Michelin star chef Carmen Berzatto" you joke, and he simply smiles at you. He finally let's you out of his grip and you give him a sweet peck, before making your way to the door. Before you can leave the office he calls out to you.

"Wear something pretty ok?"

You turn around and smile at him before replying with poise, "only for daddy"

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

A Bumpy Ride Part 2 -Oneshot

WARNING: Basically 3694 words of pure smut. Gird your loins.

Part 1

Bucky suddenly hoisted Y/N over his shoulder and jumped down the last two flights of stairs.  Y/N screamed, her arms around his waist to try and save herself.  Of course he wouldn’t drop her, his movements quick and lithe.  He slapped her ass hard and she whimpered as he wrenched the door open to the personal floors.  No one was around yet so he barrelled through the hallway and slammed his bedroom door, locking it for good measure.

“Friday, no visitors,” he barked up to the ceiling.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes,” she answered.

He turned to his bed and dumped Y/N onto it.  She landed with a huff, looking up at him with wide eyes, her breathing heavy as her desire pooled in the pit of her stomach.  “Do you have any idea,” he paused, pulling her by the ankle to the edge of the bed, “how badly I want you?”  He started roughly pulling off her pants, moaning at the sight of her plushy thighs.  “How much I’ve been dreaming of you since that day?”  He ripped her panties off, making her yelp in surprise, then shoved her shirt up her torso and over her head, flinging it into a corner of his room.  He ripped her sports bra in half, leaving fabric tatters hanging from her shoulders.  Y/N was panting, her anticipation getting the best of her.  “God, look at you,” he murmured, his hands immediately exploring her curves the moment she was naked in front of him.  “Got me so hard every time I see you.  Do you know how much I’ve fucked my own fist in the last three weeks just thinking about you?”

Y/N shook her head.  “How much?” she dared ask.

He smirked.  “Funny thing about the super soldier serum,” he huffed a laugh, “it amps everything up by 100.  So when I cum, it’s not just a few seconds like most men.  I keep cumming.”  He quickly stripped himself in front of her, and when he slipped his boxers off she gasped at the sight of his cock.  It stood long and proud, slapping against his stomach when released, his balls looking heavy.  “I meant it when I said you’ll be dripping me for days,” he said darkly, then crawled over her.

“Oh my god,” Y/N whined as his body hovered over her, all broad plains of muscle, scars and metal.  His dog tags hung between them, tickling at her breasts.  “Buck, I…please be gentle,” she said quietly, genuinely worried he wouldn’t fit.

“I will, baby,” he smiled at her.  “You’re gonna make yourself feel good first, remember?”

Y/N nodded, then Bucky dipped his head and finally kissed her.  It was like a switch flipped, and she couldn’t stop herself as she heaved a heavy breath and kissed him back frantically.  It was all tongue, teeth and spit, the lewdness of it making her hips buck up against him.  He groaned as his cock slipped between her dripping slit, humping her back as his hands slipped over every inch of skin he could reach.  The metal hand was both soothing and electrifying, sending tingly shivers down her spine.  Bucky suddenly flipped them both over so she was on top of him, straddling his hips.  His hands gripped her hips, squeezing them before he broke the kiss.  “Grind on my cock, Y/N,” he said.  “Make yourself cum on me.”

Y/N pulled herself up, her hands on his chest for leverage, and looked down between them.  His cock was nestled between her pussy lips already, pressed between her and his stomach.  He was hard, and if she wasn’t mistaken, pulsing underneath her.  She gave her hips an experimental thrust forward and shuddered at the feeling of the tip of his cock rubbing against her clit.  “That’s it, baby,” he whispered, watching her in awe.  “Use me.  Use me to feel good.”

She huffed a silent laugh, not quite believing this was all actually happening, then swiveled her hips again.  She found a rhythm that she liked and was comfortable with, thrusting back and forth, rolling her hips, her body leaning back with her arms against his thighs then moving back to hover over him again.  She was playing him like an instrument, finding her groove for what made her whimper and moan best.  Bucky watched her the entire time, his eyes fluttering every now and then, but seemingly determined to not miss a second of it.  

Y/N felt the pressure building up in her core, her pussy throbbing as her clit was flicked by the tip repeatedly.  “Bucky…” she whined.  “I’m so close.”

“Yes,” he hissed.  “What do you need, baby?”

She reached her hand down to his metal hand and pulled it up to her breast.  He immediately cupped her breast, massaging it with his hand and then pinching her nipple between his fingers, rubbing the sting away with his thumb.  She gasped at the added stimulation, her hips moving faster and bearing down firmly on his hips.  “Yes, oh yes!  Fuck!” Y/N’s fingers scratched against his chest.

“Shit, yeah, cum baby.  Cum all over my cock!” Bucky said, his other hand coming up to pinch her other nipple.  His hips bucked up into her just as she grinded on her clit, and she came with a shout, her entire body shaking as her eyes shut tight, her mouth falling open and her head falling back.  Bucky moaned loudly beneath her, his hands tightening around her breasts and his hips squirming.  “Holy fuck, yes,” he groaned.  “You look so pretty, baby.”

Once the pleasure started to ebb away Y/N opened her eyes and looked down at him, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead.  “Damn,” she swore.  She looked between them and saw his hips covered in liquid.  “Oh, I’m sor–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Bucky scolded her.  He turned them both back over so she was laying on her back again.  He rutted his hips against her core and she gasped.  “I love being covered in your cum,” he said, shifting himself down the bed until his face was level with her pussy.  “My turn,” he smirked, maneuvering her legs so her thighs were over his shoulders, then diving in to taste her.

Y/N yelped at the intrusion of his tongue, her hips trying to twist away at the overwhelming sensation.  His hands firmly held her thighs, refusing to let her move.  He moaned and groaned loudly as he licked at her slit, taking his time as he became acquainted with her most vulnerable parts.  It was like he was making out with her pussy, kissing and licking it languidly.  She was already so close again after cumming already, and she reached her hands down and gripped his hair.

Bucky grunted, his nose huffing hot air against her clit.  “Fuck yeah, pull my hair, baby,” he mumbled against her.  “Fuck my face.”

Y/N panted as she gyrated her hips against his face, her hands in his hair keeping him where she wanted.  He stuck his tongue out and let her ride him, his eyes watching her with mischievous glee.  After a minute of that he quickly surged forward and sucked on her clit hard, then flicked it fast with the tip of his tongue as his hands kneaded her thighs.  She came again without warning, humming deep in her chest as her hips and legs shook.  

Bucky whimpered, his own hum reverberating in her pussy as he licked up all he could.  “Yes baby, fuck, tastes so good,” he moaned, his hand moving to her clit and flicking it to prolong her orgasm.  Y/N’s hips bucked to get away but he held her down.  “Uh-uh, let it be,” he said lowly.  “That’s only the first way I’m gonna make you cum, this is the second.”  He manhandled her like a rag doll until she was positioned above his face, her hands gripping the headboard of his bed for dear life as he ate her out again, his finger continuously rubbing and flicking her clit.  She came again within a minute, the overstimulation making her ache inside.  He lapped up her cum as she finished, swallowing loudly as she dripped down his chin.  “Good girl,” he said before moving her to lay back again.

He finally plunged two fingers into her and her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.  The tips of his fingers prodded inside her pussy, searching for her special spot as he fucked her with them.  When her head wrenched back again he knew he found it and smiled proudly, his tongue poking out to lick his lips.  His metal thumb went to her clit and rubbed it slowly as he added a third finger, thrusting them in and out of her at a slow and steady pace.

“Bucky, I…ohmygod,” Y/N gasped.  “I can’t, please, it’s too much.”

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” Bucky praised her.  “Just give me another one, huh?  Yeah?  Be a good girl and give me your cum.  I’ll fuck you soon, I promise.”

His hand in her pussy sped up, fucking her fast as his metal thumb rubbed harder over her clit.  Y/N stiffened, cumming for the fourth time as her pussy squeezed his fingers, finding a little relief at the fill of something inside her.  

“That’s it, you did so well, good girl,” Bucky praised her again, his fingers continuously massaging her inside.  “Your pussy loves me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Y/N nodded lazily, her mind increasingly becoming fuzzy.

He leaned down and kissed her again.  Y/N tried to kiss him back as fervently as he was kissing her, but found it hard with how overstimulated she was.  “Have you ever had your ass played with, baby?” he mumbled against her lips.

“Only once,” Y/N breathed.

“Did you like it?” he smirked.

“Y-yeah,” she replied, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Dirty girl,” he laughed.  He pulled his fingers out of her with a squelch, then teased her asshole with them.  Y/N shivered at the contact.  “Ooh you’re tight,” he frowned.  “Just my fingers, okay?  I don’t think I’ll be fucking you in the ass anytime soon.”  Y/N pouted at that and he laughed again.  “Aw, you want me to fuck you in the ass?”  She bit her lip, peering up at him pleadingly.  “Fuck, you look so hot, begging me with your eyes like that,” he groaned.  “We’ll work you up to it next time.”

Y/N’s heart soared at the prospect of there being a next time.  Bucky sat back up straight, pulling her hips up until her ass was resting on chest, her upper back and shoulders hunched and her legs up in the air as he held her almost upside down on the bed.  Her hands gripped his biceps as he leaned his head down and started eating her ass out.  “Such a pretty ass,” he mumbled, licking her hole insistently.  He dipped the tip of his tongue into her as much as he could, swirling it around her rim, then kissing and sucking at it.  He pulled back and positioned her back onto the bed, then flipped her on her stomach before pulling her hips up so she rested on her knees, her ass high in the air.  He spit on her hole, and she moaned loudly.  “Dirty girl,” he repeated.  “You and I are gonna have lots of fun.”

His fingers returned to her ass, carefully and slowly working his pointer finger in first.  Y/N’s hips squirmed as his first finger fucked her ass, then once she seemed to relax and spread a little more he inserted his second finger.  Y/N hadn’t done this in a long time, and her eyes rolled as the fill flooded her senses.  Bucky picked up the pace, his metal hand slapping her left ass cheek.  She yelped, her head thrashing against the bed.  “You think you can cum from this, baby?” He teased her.  “This pretty ass getting fucked by my fingers?  Such a big, juicy, jiggly ass,” he said from what sounded like gritted teeth.  His metal hand slapped her right ass cheek harder and her pussy throbbed, her ass tightening around his fingers.  “Oh, you like getting spanked, huh?” he chuckled.  “Tryna make me fall in love with you, Y/N?”

She whimpered at that.  First the talk of breeding her, and now falling in love with her?  It was all too much, and she started to cry.  Bucky’s metal fingers went under her pussy and started flicking at her clit again, his metal thumb inserting into her pussy and holding her there.  His fingers in her ass found the right spot that had her coming undone for the fifth time.  Her knees gave out as she face planted on the bed, her body convulsing harder than the last time as her entire core felt like it was on fire.  Her scream was muffled by the bed, her throat sore and raw from how much she had been crying out.

“Such a good girl,” Bucky said behind her.  He slowly pulled his hands away from her aching holes, massaging the sting left from his metal hand slapping her ass cheeks.  “I’m sorry, I’m marking you up so bad,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry.  He turned her over to her back again and shuffled in between her legs, hoisting her thighs over his hips as he gripped his cock and ran the tip through her pussy lips, gathering her leftover cum and using it to lube himself up.  “Do you think you can give me one more as I fuck you, Y/N?”

He squeezed her thigh to ground her back to the present.  She opened her tear-soaked eyes, blearily looking up at him.  She nodded and he shook his head.  “Words, baby,” he instructed.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Y/N sighed heavily.  There was nothing more in the world that she wanted right here and now than to be filled with his cock.  “Please fuck me, honey,” she begged, her voice sounding raspy and tired.  “Please breed me.  I’ll try to cum again for you, I promise.  Please?”

He let out a puff of air like she had sucked the wind out of his lungs, his face morphing into a look of pure desire.  His blue eyes were almost completely engulfed by his pupils dilating, his need for her pulsing between her legs.  “You’re so pretty when you beg,” he smirked dangerously.  “All spread out for me like this,” his fingers skimmed her thighs, tickling up to the crease between her legs and her pussy.  “Goddess,” he whispered, looking at her face like she hung the moon herself.  

Bucky aimed his cock at her entrance and slowly began to thrust in.  Y/N sucked in a sharp breath at the intrusion, trying to relax her body to let him in.  His fingers had prepared her for the girth of him, but the stretch as he went deeper and deeper had her tensing.  “Breath, baby,” he said, leaning over her.  He kissed her again, but this one was more tender, passionate and soft.  It helped relax her, and he slid all the way in, letting her adjust to him as he dug his flesh hand under her neck to make her head move where he wanted as he angled his head to deepen the kiss even further.  

Y/N’s arms wrapped around his back under his arms, her nails scratching his upper back as her pussy fluttered around him.  She had never felt so full before.  He was reaching areas so deep inside she didn’t realize were possible, making her teeter on the precipice of another orgasm already.  “Fucking hell,” she mumbled against his cheek when he moved from her mouth to the side of her face, licking her tears away.  “Bucky, you feel amazing.  Holy shit!  How do you feel this good?”  

He chuckled in her ear before nibbling on her earlobe.  “Big words coming from the best pussy I’ve ever felt,” he said.  “Perfect, chubby pussy, swallowing me whole.  Made just for me, wasn’t it?”

He experimentally rutted into her, and she tightened her legs around his hips.  “Yes!” she hissed, a thrilling rush of adrenaline shooting up her spine.  

“Weeping for me, isn’t it?” he teased, pulling back and thrusting into her slowly with a roll of his hips just to prove how wet she was, a sloppy squishy sound coming from between them.  “My pussy,” he growled.

“Your pussy,” Y/N agreed, her head frantically nodding.  Her arms tightened around him as his hips sped up.  It felt like he was everywhere, his entire body enveloping her, his fingers fisting her hair as his metal hand felt her up everywhere else it could reach, settling on her right thigh and gripping it hard.  

“This is your cock,” he said, his panting breaths and low voice resounding in her ear.  “I wanna be in you everyday.”

“Everyday,” she repeated, her hands slipping back over his chest and up into his hair, keeping his face near hers.  His cock dragged through her deliciously as he angled his hips slightly differently and hit that spot inside again, the head of his cock rubbing it perfectly.  “Perfect cock, honey.  I need it.”

Bucky shivered hard, nuzzling his face all over her face and kissing away more tears she was unaware had fallen.  “You’re mine, you hear me?” he declared, his metal hand replacing his flesh one behind her neck while his flesh arm dug underneath her back, holding her close against him so her breasts pushed up into his chest.  “Only mine.  Gonna fuck a baby into you.”

“Mmmh!” she whimpered, her pussy fluttering harder around him, making his pace stutter for a moment.  

“Then you’ll be mine forever, won’t you?” he huffed against her face.  “Gonna breed you over and over again.  You’ll always feel me dripping down your legs.  How does that sound, baby?”

“I’m already yours,” Y/N said, more serious than before.  “Baby or no baby.  I wanna be yours so bad, Bucky, it hurts.  Please claim me.”  He pulled back just enough to look at her better, seeing if she was serious.  “Cum inside me.  Date me.  Marry me.  Breed me.  I don’t care.  Just be mine.  I’m already and will always be yours.”

“Fuck!” he cried out, then kissed her hard.  His hold on her tightened impossibly further and his hips started to thrust with inhuman speed, the snap of his hips making an echoing noise in his room.  “I’m yours, baby.  Yours, Y/N.  All yours,” he said, his voice raising as continual whimpers fell from deep in his throat.  

Y/N’s fingers pulled his hair, making him shudder above her again.  “I’m…I’m cumming,” she whispered in warning, the pressure building impossibly higher than all the other times.  “Oh my god!”

“Cum, Y/N, cum all over my cock, one more time baby please!” Bucky begged against her lips.  He plunged his tongue into her mouth, and she sucked his tongue then bit his lower lip and sucked on it.  “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

Y/N felt it all build up, like every nerve in her body was alight, then she screamed into his mouth as she came.  Her entire body went limp from overstimulation, having never cum that many times before, her pussy like a vice around Bucky’s cock as every part of her shook underneath him.  Bucky groaned loudly, fucking her hard, fast and deep until he yelled as he came, continuing to thrust into her as she milked him of all he had.

He wasn’t wrong, Y/N realized, as she felt his hot cum fill her up then seep from between them and soak the bed.  When he came he came a lot, and he moaned into the crook of her neck as he pumped her full until she overflowed.  She was still limp, unable to move from how fucked out she was, and her head lolled to rest on his cheek.  “Such a mess, honey,” she said, her voice shot from how much she had been screaming.  “But you breed me so good.”

Bucky hummed, his hips rutting into her as he finally finished after another minute.  They lay together for a while, letting their breathing get back to normal before he lifted his head and kissed back up to her mouth.  He gave her another deep kiss before pulling his arm from under her back and leaning on his elbow.  “You did so well, baby,” he praised her.  “My goddess.  You came, what, six times?”  Y/N smiled, her eyes hooded with how tired she was.  “Look how beautiful you are,” he smiled at her, nuzzling her nose with his nose again.  “Properly fucked.”

She giggled, finding the strength to lift her hands back up to his face, scratching at his beard as she cupped his cheeks.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so properly fucked before,” she mumbled.

His smile widened proudly, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.  “Better get used to it,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.  “Because I meant every word.  You’re mine.  I’m yours.  And I’m gonna do my best to be inside you every day.”

Y/N huffed a laugh.  “Well then we’re gonna have to invest in waterproof bedding.”

He laughed, hiding his face against her chest in embarrassment as she laughed with him.  “So mean,” he groaned.  “Making fun of me.”

“You’re a big boy, you can handle it,” Y/N said.  Bucky slowly raised his head, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.  Y/N could feel his cock hardening inside her and her eyes widened.  “Buck…I need a minute.”

He hauled her up and off the bed, and she squeaked as she wrapped her arms and legs around him while he walked to the bathroom and into his shower.  “You’re a big girl, you can handle it.”

[ccwpidsblog]

please please please — r.sukuna

⭐️: nsfw 18+ in which he’ll never let you leave.

cupids arrows: i suck at summaries so just read

You guessed annoyed was the right word for this situation—a safe, polite choice for the chaos bubbling inside you. There were sharper, more colorful words sitting on the edge of your tongue, tempting you, waiting for release. But you promised yourself, long ago, that you wouldn’t stoop to vulgar language to express your frustrations with him. No, annoyed would do just fine.

A deep frown creased your pretty face as you stood outside the county jail, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your fiance strolled toward you with the swagger of a man who believed himself invincible. Sukuna. Pink-haired menace, king of smug grins and bad decisions. He moved like he owned the damn place, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, probably having spent the last hour bragging to the guards about his inevitable freedom.

The closer he got, the hotter your blood began to simmer—not the good kind of heat that once set your heart racing, but a slow, steady boil of anger that threatened to spill over.

He reached you, unbothered as always, and pulled you against him without warning. His strong hands settled on your hips, tugging you flush against his chest. “My pretty girl” he murmured, the low rasp of his voice sending a shiver down your spine—one you despised feeling right now. His face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, taking in that signature scent of vanilla and coconut that he claimed was his favorite. He squeezed your ass for good measure, like you weren’t scowling at him.

When he finally leaned back, those crimson eyes met yours. He noticed the way your brows pinched together, the furrow in your forehead, the tension pulling at every inch of your face.

“Tch.” He rolled his eyes, kissed your forehead as if that might smooth over your irritation, then flicked it softly with his fingers. Before you could bark at him, he grabbed you by the waist again and hoisted you onto the hood of his car like a doll.

“Fix your fuckin’ face,” he said, tone gruff, like you were the one causing problems.

Your lip curled in disgust. “No.”

You sounded petulant, childish even, but you didn’t care. He sighed heavily and tilted your chin up, trying to pull you into a kiss. You turned your head away, hopping off the hood and making a beeline for the driver’s side door.

He followed, of course, because Sukuna never let you have the last word. He yanked the door open for you with a dramatic flourish, standing there and looming over you for a moment before shaking his head and slamming it shut behind you.

Sukuna Ryomen was a piece of work.

Quick to anger. Always in and out of jail. Rude beyond reason with a tongue sharper than glass. He lived his life the way he wanted—rules and consequences be damned. And despite all of that, you loved him. How, you still weren’t sure.

It didn’t make sense. You were complete opposites.

You were a law-abiding citizen, a woman who had worked hard her entire life. You graduated seventh in your class from Harvard Law and carved out a successful career as a private, highly sought-after defense attorney. Yet somehow, all that prestige and polish meant nothing when it came to him.

Time and time again, you’d find yourself standing before a judge, legal arguments at the ready, fighting tooth and nail to keep Sukuna from rotting behind bars. Lowering his sentences, dismissing charges, outmaneuvering prosecutors—all to clean up messes he created.

Tonight, though? Tonight you were done.

You were tired. Tired of his cocky smirk and uncaring attitude. Tired of bending over mountains of paperwork, sacrificing sleep, just to make sure he didn’t throw his life away. Tired of waking up in an empty bed because he decided a night in a jail cell was somehow more appealing than being next to you.

You made excuses for him constantly. To yourself. To your friends, who rolled their eyes every time you said, “It’s just his culture…he was raised that way.” You weren’t fooling anyone, though—not even yourself.

You hadn’t spoken since the drive home. The silence stretched between you like an invisible wall, growing heavier with every passing second. Sukuna sat on the edge of your bed, legs spread wide, his muscular arms crossed over his chest as he watched you move. His sharp gaze followed every step you took along the dresser, every rustle of your pink satin nightgown as you tied your hair up for the night.

His patience was wearing thin. You could feel it.

“What the fuck’s up with you?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it tonight.

You let out a slow breath, keeping your back to him. “I’m just tired, ‘Kuna.”

“Tired, my ass.” The bed creaked as he stood, footsteps heavy as he walked closer. “You’ve only said twenty fuckin’ words since we got home. Cut the shit, princess.”

Your eye twitched at his condescension. You tugged at the strings of your bonnet, steadying yourself. “I just want to sleep.”

The tension in the room thickened like smoke. Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his body going rigid. “You got somethin’ to say? Say it now.”

Finally, you turned to face him. Your exhaustion bled through every word. “I just want to sleep, Sukuna. Can I do that? Or do I need to stay up and watch you all night—make sure you don’t run off and land yourself in jail again?”

He scoffed, a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t need you to do shit.”

Your voice cracked like a whip. “Well, I can’t fucking tell, Ryomen! Who do you call when you get in trouble? Hm? Because it sure as hell isn’t your brothers or your broke-ass buddies, Toji and Gojo.”

His mouth opened to fire back, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“It’s me. Every. Damn. Time.” Your voice shook, hands trembling as you jabbed your finger at him. “Everything I do for you is because I love you, but there’s only so much I can give, Sukuna.”

His confusion deepened as you reached for your left hand, fingers brushing the diamond ring he gave you years ago.

“We’ve been doing this for far too long,” you said softly. “I’m not that young, naive girl anymore—the one who used to follow you around while you beat the shit out of guys who owed you money. I’m a lawyer. I have a reputation, a business. I want to get married to a man who doesn’t have me fearing I’ll lose him every single day.”

Sukuna ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. He just stood there, staring at you like you’d ripped the ground out from under him.

He always knew this day would come. It haunted him every time you visited him in jail, every time you posted his bail, every time you cleaned the bruises on his fists. It was like a ticking time bomb he’d chosen to ignore.

But after seven long years, he realized something else—it was far too late for you to leave him.

“Kuna, please!” Your protests came out muffled, his large, calloused hand clamping over your mouth without mercy. You weren’t sure how he’d managed to tie your hands so quickly, leaving you utterly at his mercy, but not without a fight. The evidence was clear—faint streaks of blood from the bite marks you’d left on his forearm, and the bright outline of your handprint blooming red across his cheek.

He didn’t care.

His weight bore down on you, pinning your legs against your chest until your knees nearly touched your ears. Every inch of his massive body pressed into you, forcing you to take him as he bullied his way through your slick, trembling walls.

“Shut it with your bitchin’,” he growled, his voice low and gruff as it rattled through your chest.

“I’ve heard enough of it.”

He huffed, his grip tightening around your trembling ankles as he drove into you with rough, punishing strokes. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, his movements calculated to leave you breathless and aching. This wasn’t how he planned to take you tonight— no, he had intended to ease into it, to love you nice and slow, for old times’ sake. But you had pushed him, testing his limits with the sharp, frustrated words that always seemed to fly from your mouth when you were upset with him.

“You gonna be a good girl,” he growled, voice low and menacing, “and take it like you always do.”

His tone made your breath hitch, each word sinking deep as he claimed you fully, leaving you no choice but to surrender to him.

You let out a string of curses and helpless squeaks as he rammed into that devastatingly sweet spot, each thrust pulling another whimper from your trembling lips. Drool spilled from the corners of your mouth, trailing down to join the salty tears streaking from your misted eyes.

“Can’t… I can’t—” you choked out, voice catching between broken cries.

He hissed sharply, a large hand cupping your cheeks, squeezing them together until your face scrunched in his palm. His crimson eyes burned into yours, wild and unrelenting. “You can, and you fuckin’ will,” he growled, words rough and ragged. “You think you can leave me? Are you crazy, girl?”

There was something more behind his voice now—an edge of desperation that cut through the roughness, raw and trembling. And suddenly, your tears weren’t just from pleasure.

“You’re never gonna leave me. Ever,” he whispered fiercely, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m gonna get it together for you—I swear I will. I’ll be the best husband, the best dad, the best everything for you.”

There was a crack in his voice, barely noticeable but enough to send your heart reeling. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his weight pressing down on you, arms locking you in a crushing bear hug. Yet his hips never faltered, his movements still deep, steady, and merciless.

“I fucking promise, baby. I promise I will,” he grunted against your ear, the words vibrating through your bones.

“Please, please, please—” you squealed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter as your body arched into him. Your peaks crashed down together, a shared release that left you breathless, hearts pounding in unison.

The room settled into a quiet stillness, the kind that only comes after the storm, as Sukuna’s arms wrapped snugly around you. Your cheek rested against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of calm. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your bare back, a silent rhythm that grounded you in the moment.

“You okay?” he murmured after a beat, his voice softer now, rough edges smoothed by the lingering warmth between you.

You giggled softly, shifting slightly as your fingers skimmed the deep, faintly red marks you’d left on his back. Your touch followed the crescent bite marks on his shoulder, evidence of your earlier resistance. “I should be asking you that,” you teased, your voice light with humor despite your exhaustion.

Sukuna huffed out a short laugh, the sound low and rumbling beneath your ear. “Tch. I’m fine,” he replied, though his smirk gave him away. “I barely felt it.”

You rolled your eyes and lightly trailed your nails down the expanse of his back, earning a faint shiver from him despite his tough words. “Oh, really? Because these marks tell a different story.”

“Don’t get cocky now,” he shot back, grinning as he tilted his head to look down at you. His crimson eyes softened when he caught sight of your smile, your face warm and glowing in the soft light. “You fight dirty, you know that?”

You shrugged with a smirk of your own. “You started it.”

He let out another low chuckle, one of his hands coming up to cradle your cheek. “And I’ll finish it, too, every time.” His thumb brushed tenderly over your lips before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

There was a lingering pause as his lips lingered against your skin, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But I meant it, y’know… about getting my shit together for you.”

Your teasing smile softened, your heart squeezing at the sincerity in his tone. You let your hand drift up to his face, fingertips tracing the faint marks you’d left on his cheek earlier. “I know, Kuna,” you whispered. “Just don’t say it—show me, okay?”

His eyes met yours, steady and unwavering. “I will,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm.

You offered a small smile, leaning into his touch as you pressed a gentle kiss to his palm. “Good. Because as much as I love leaving marks on you… I love you even more.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a grin as he tightened his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. “Yeah, yeah. You’re stuck with me, princess.”

You rolled your eyes again, but your smile betrayed you as you nestled closer to him, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along his chest.

For the first time in a long time, the silence felt peaceful—comfortable, even. And as you lay in his embrace, the world outside didn’t seem so overwhelming.

For now, this was enough.

[dieseldame]

𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗧𝗮𝗺𝗲

Sevika x Piltover! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,1K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: In the chaotic heart of Zaun, The Last Drop is no stranger to fights or bold personalities. But when a bratty, jewelry-clad Piltie struts in like she owns the place, all hell breaks loose. Married to Sevika, a woman feared across Zaun, Reader knows exactly how to push buttons—especially Sevika's. What starts as a test of Sevika’s patience quickly escalates into a bar brawl, leaving Sevika dragging her defiant wife home to remind her who’s in charge.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Established Relationship, power play, jealousy, violence, sapphic tension, suggestive content and mild humor.

The Last Drop was alive with the raucous hum of Zaun's underbelly. Smoke hung in the air like a shroud, curling around dim lights that barely cut through the haze. Sevika leaned back in her chair, the faint creak of wood beneath her a rare sound amid the clang of glasses, shouts, and the occasional sharp bark of laughter. She was in her element here, a weathered deck of cards in her hand and a pile of shimmers stacked before her—a reminder that even on her worst days, she could still outplay the best of them.

Her gaze was sharp, her lips curved into the faintest smirk as she flicked a card onto the table with an air of casual dominance. — You folding already? — Her voice cut through the noise like a blade, low and gravelly, daring anyone to meet her eyes.

The table grumbled in response, a chorus of muttered curses and begrudging chuckles. They knew better than to cross her—most of them, anyway.

The door swung open then, spilling harsh yellow light into the bar. The hum of conversation faltered, a ripple of silence spreading outward as heads turned. Sevika didn't bother looking up at first; she'd seen too many fools trying to make an entrance here. But then she heard it—the sound of heels clicking against the floor in an unhurried, deliberate rhythm.

Her eyes flicked upward, and the sight that greeted her was enough to make her grip on the card tighten.

You stood in the doorway, framed by the flickering light of a neon sign outside, and you looked like you'd walked out of a dream and into a den of wolves. Your outfit—if it could even be called that—clung to your curves, light, sheer fabrics that left very little to the imagination. The jewelry draped across your skin caught the dim light, glinting like stars against the shadows.

It was a bold look, reckless even. Piltover glittered on you like a target, every ring, every gem practically begging to be stolen. Yet, you walked with the kind of confidence that suggested you either didn't care or knew no one would dare.

The latter was true.

Sevika's jaw ticked, her mechanical fingers curling slightly at the sight of you. The brat in you was on full display, and she could see it in the way you moved, in the subtle quirk of your lips as you scanned the room. You knew exactly what you were doing.

The noise in the bar picked back up, though it was laced now with whispers and murmurs. A few men at a corner table exchanged glances, their eyes raking over you like they didn't care who saw. Sevika's gaze darkened, her expression sharpening into something dangerous.

You didn’t approach her directly. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, you sauntered toward the bar, your hips swaying in a way that demanded attention, every step measured to draw eyes—hers, especially.

— Whiskey, — you said, your voice light and sweet as you leaned against the bar. — Neat.

The bartender hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Sevika before sliding back to you. He knew better than to argue.

Sevika watched you, her card forgotten on the table. Her companions shifted uneasily in their seats, shooting her nervous glances. They'd seen her temper before, and the way her hand hovered near her drink like she was debating throwing it was never a good sign.

One of the men at the corner table was braver—or stupider—than the rest. He rose to his feet and swaggered toward you, his grin as greasy as his hair. — Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes. — he drawled, his voice loud enough to cut through the room.

You turned to him with an innocent smile, your head tilting just enough to expose the line of your neck. — Oh? — you said, your tone light, almost playful.

Sevika’s eye twitched.

The man leaned in closer, his hand brushing against the bar beside you as he crowded into your space. — What's a doll like you doing in a place like this?

— Waiting. — you said simply, your gaze flicking briefly to Sevika.

The man followed your eyes, his grin faltering slightly when he saw the way Sevika was staring at him—cold and unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey.

— Don't. — one of Sevika's companions muttered under his breath, but the man either didn't hear or didn't care.

He turned back to you, his confidence apparently bolstered by liquid courage. — How 'bout I keep you company until whoever you're waiting for shows up?

You hummed, a soft sound that sent a shiver down Sevika's spine for all the wrong reasons. — That's sweet of you, — you said, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. — But I think you'll find I'm not as lonely as I look.

The man didn't take the hint.

Sevika stood, the scrape of her chair against the floor loud enough to draw every eye in the room. The bar fell silent again as she approached, her steps measured, deliberate. She didn't bother to roll up her sleeves—she wouldn't need to.

When she reached you, she didn’t speak. Instead, her hand curled around your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you back against her chest. The heat of her body and the cool metal of her prosthetic made you shiver, but you didn’t resist.

— You lost? — Sevika said, her voice low and dangerous, her gaze fixed on the man like he was already dead.

The man hesitated, his bravado faltering under the weight of her glare. — Just makin' conversation. — he said, though his voice lacked its earlier swagger.

— Funny, —Sevika said, her tone cold enough to freeze the air around her. — I don't remember asking you to.

The man's face twitched-fear creeping into his expression, though he was trying his best to hide it. The whole bar was watching now, the other patrons frozen in place, breaths held as if they could sense the storm brewing.

You, of course, were no help.

— Aw, Sev, — you cooed, tilting your head to look up at her with that sly little smile that made her blood boil. — He was just being friendly. No need to scare the poor guy.

Sevika's gaze flicked to you, her brow arching in a silent warning. The way her jaw tightened was a clear sign she was seconds from snapping, and you were the one pushing her there.

The man, emboldened by your words-or perhaps too drunk to read the room- straightened up and sneered. — See? The lady doesn't mind.

Sevika's grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging in just enough to make you squirm. Not in pain-never that-but enough to remind you who was in control here.

— You've got about three seconds to walk away, — Sevika said, her voice like gravel. — Before I break every bone in your body.

The man's laugh was sharp and nervous, his gaze darting between you and Sevika. — No need to get violent, big girl. I didn't mean any harm.

— Big girl? — someone muttered from the crowd, a few stifled laughs echoing through the bar.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh of your own. That was a mistake. Sevika saw it-the way your shoulders shook ever so slightly-and it was all the confirmation she needed. You wanted this. You wanted the chaos, the mess, the violence.

Fine.

— One. — Sevika said, her hand releasing your waist as she stepped forward.

— Whoa, hey! — The man's hands went up in surrender, but it was too late.

— Two.

The sound of her fist connecting with his jaw was deafening, the crack of bone followed by the dull thud of his body hitting the floor. Gasps and cheers erupted from the crowd, the tension in the room exploding into chaos.

The man scrambled to his feet, clutching his face as blood dripped between his fingers. — You bitch-

He didn't get to finish. Sevika was on him again, her prosthetic arm slamming into his gut with enough force to send him crashing into a table. Glass shattered, and the patrons at the table scattered, shouting as they tried to get out of the way.

You watched from your spot at the bar, sipping your whiskey with an amused smile. You knew better than to intervene now; Sevika was in her element, and you'd only get in her way. Besides, you liked watching her like this-feral and unrelenting, every punch and kick a reminder of why she was feared in Zaun.

The man wasn't alone for long. A couple of his friends-foolish and drunk-rushed forward, shouting curses as they tried to gang up on her. It didn't matter. Sevika moved like a storm, her movements calculated and precise. One man went down with a sickening crunch, his nose broken, while the other barely got a swing in before she dislocated his shoulder with a swift twist of her arm.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The room fell silent again, the only sounds the groans of the men on the floor and the heavy, measured breaths of Sevika as she stood over them.

She turned to you then, her expression dark and dangerous. — Enjoying yourself?

You set your glass down, giving her an innocent smile that you knew would only piss her off more. — Always.

The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a moment you thought she might actually smile. But instead, she crossed the room in a few long strides, grabbing your wrist with her flesh hand and pulling you toward the door.

— Sevika-

— Not a word. — she growled, her voice low enough that it sent a shiver down your spine.

The bar erupted into whispers and murmurs as she dragged you outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from her. You barely had time to steady yourself before she had you pinned against the wall of the alleyway, her body crowding yours in a way that left no room for escape.

— You think this is funny? — she asked, her prosthetic hand braced against the wall beside your head, her flesh hand gripping your chin to force you to look at her.

— I think you're hot when you're jealous, — you said, your voice breathless but defiant.

Her eyes narrowed, and the dangerous glint in them made your pulse race. — Is that right?

You nodded, a teasing smile playing on your lips despite the way your heart was pounding. — Mhm. That little show back there? Ten out of ten.

Her grip on your chin tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. — You like testing me, don't you?

— Maybe. — you said, your voice softening into a whisper.

Her thumb brushed over your bottom lip, her gaze flicking down to your mouth before meeting your eyes again. — You're mine, — she said, her voice a low growl that sent heat pooling in your stomach. — Don't forget that.

— I won't. — you promised, though the mischievous glint in your eyes suggested otherwise.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, — Good. Because when we get home, I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to.

Your breath caught, your fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as a shiver ran down your spine. You didn't doubt her for a second.

Sevika didn't wait for your answer. She straightened up, her hand leaving your chin to grab your wrist again, tugging you along as she marched through the dimly lit streets of Zaun. The tension in her shoulders was palpable, the storm that had been brewing in the bar now fully directed at you.

You didn't resist-oh no, that wasn't part of the game. Instead, you followed obediently, your steps quick to keep up with hers, though the occasional sway of your hips was deliberate. You weren't done teasing her yet, not by a long shot.

The walk to her apartment was mercifully short. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing through the small space. Before you could even get your bearings, she had you pressed against it, her hand on your throat-not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of her strength.

— Think you're funny, don't you? — she growled, her face inches from yours.

Your grin was unrepentant, your hands coming up to rest against her chest. — Maybe a little.

Her eyes narrowed, and the muscle in her jaw twitched. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against your lips as she spoke. — You like making me lose control. You think it's a game.

— Isn't it? — you whispered, your voice soft but taunting.

That did it.

In one swift motion, she spun you around, pressing your front against the cool metal of the door. Her hand slid down your side, her grip firm and commanding as she held you in place.

— You're mine, — she said again, her voice low and rough, each word dripping with authority. — And I don't share.

Your breath hitched, the heat pooling in your stomach spreading through your veins like wildfire. — I know. — you said, your voice barely audible, though the smile on your lips betrayed your lingering defiance.

Her flesh hand found its way to your hip, tugging at the thin fabric of your skirt. The metal of her prosthetic grazed the back of your neck, the cool sensation sending a shiver down your spine.

— You think you're in charge, — she muttered, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. — You're not.

Your lips parted, a sharp inhale filling your lungs as she pressed her body against yours, her strength overwhelming, intoxicating. She was in control now, and you loved it.

— Say it. — she demanded, her voice dropping even lower, the rasp in her tone sending a thrill through you.

— I'm yours. — you admitted, your voice trembling slightly.

She hummed in satisfaction, her lips curving into a smirk as she pressed a kiss to your neck, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp.

— Damn right you are.

Her hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingers tracing over the thin lace you'd worn just for her. The sound of her low chuckle sent heat rushing to your cheeks, though you refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing you blush.

— You planned this, didn't you? — she asked, her tone accusatory but amused.

— Maybe. — you replied, your voice breathless but still teasing.

Her grip on your hip tightened, her prosthetic arm bracing against the door to cage you in completely. — You're going to regret that. — she murmured, her lips ghosting over your shoulder.

You didn't regret it-not for a second. But you didn't tell her that. Instead, you let her take what was hers, every touch, every kiss, every bruising grip on your skin a reminder of the power she held over you.

By the time she was done, your legs were trembling, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you clung to her for support. She held you steady, her lips brushing against your temple in a rare moment of softness.

— Still think it's a game? — she asked, her voice quiet but teasing.

You looked up at her, your grin as defiant as ever despite the exhaustion in your limbs. — Maybe. — you said, your tone light and playful.

She shook her head, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest. — You're impossible.

— And you love it. — you shot back, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

She didn't deny it. Instead, she scooped you up in her arms, carrying you to the bed without a word. You didn't fight her- not this time.

You'd won the game in your own way, after all.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[heqvenlymoons]

That One, I Want That One

Based on @fleursroses 's incorrect quote! <3

This is being posted as a oneshot on both my AO3 account and here on tumblr for now but I'm seriously considering turning it into a multi-chaptered fic because how well it was received. Someone said it had rom com potential and I can see it 😭

Daminette One Shot | Crack Fic | AO3

Damian tugged on the collar of his great dane, Titus, trying to get away from his imbecile brothers. 

It was a futile endeavour, as his brothers merely sped up their walking pace, talking over one another. 

“Come on, Dami! We just wanna know,” Richard— Grayson, because he was currently being a nuisance— whined. 

Todd scoffed, waving around the toy Nerf gun he insisted on bringing. “You know what? The brat’s probably better off without a wife, god forbid whoever gets stuck with him forever. I bet you, the little shit’s gonna be the one blackmailing someone into being his wife if he sees fit.” 

“Fuck you, Todd.” Damian’s fingers itched to grab his katana and slit it over his idiotic brother’s throat but at last, his father and pseudo grandfather figure, Alfred, had confiscated the knives he tried to sneak out on their business trip to Paris. 

Drake sipped on his coffee, his head bobbing up and down as he struggled to stay awake, even as he mumbled an incoherent, “You’re never going to get an answer if you aggravate him like that, Jay. Although I’d still like to know as well.” 

He hadn’t finished his sentence when he stumbled into a nearby pedestrian, almost kissing the ground had Todd not grabbed him by the collar at the last second.

During the mishap, the coffee cup Drake was holding spilled onto the floor, seeping into the ground as he stared at it with mournful eyes. “My coffee!” 

Todd rolled his eyes, letting go of the sleep-deprived Drake’s collar with an unsympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Damian’s lips curved up to a smirk. Perhaps that would keep Drake quiet for a few minutes as he mourned his spilled coffee. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Grayson or Todd from their irritating line of questioning his so-called ‘love life’. 

Damian glared when Grayson pulled out the puppy doll eyes, accompanied by his repeated question, “Come on, please? Just answer the question— what’s your ideal type?” 

“Repeating the question with that pathetic expression of yours does not make me any more inclined to answer your question.” Damian spotted a bakery up ahead and approached it, ignoring Grayson’s pout. 

Perhaps his dingbat brothers would behave themselves in an embellishment full of people, although that would be wishful thinking on his part. 

His brothers, of course, followed him and continued to push their relentless questions onto him 

Todd grabbed his arm, stopping him, a glint of glee in his eyes, no doubt finding amusement in his current predicament. “You know, we’re not going to stop bothering you until you tell us.” 

Damian’s brows furrowed in annoyance, knowing full well from experience that his brothers would not stop poking and prodding until he did what they wanted. 

Right now, they wanted to know his ideal type, and they claimed his answer was to sedate their ever-growing ‘curiosity’ when he knew they wanted to utilize the information to set him up with someone. 

He scowled, making his decision. He would tell them only to make them stop badgering him about the inane question but that didn’t mean he was open to the idea of a relationship with someone they chose for him 

“Fine. My future partner must be brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized. You imbeciles better not utilize this information to set me up with someone or I will stab you.” He hissed, sending them his most intimidating glare for good measure. 

Todd dared to smirk at him. “Not likely, Demon Spawn. And even if we did, you won’t stab us. You’re all bark and no bite.” 

In response, Damian kicked him in the knee, making the older double over with a grunt. 

Before he could continue his assault, Grayson dragged him away, Todd spitting curses from where he lay on the ground in a starfish position, the Nerf gun on the ground beside him. 

Grayson was already wearing the contemplative expression he had on whenever he was about to do something stupid. “Okay~ that’s enough, little D. Back to what we were discussing, your future girlfriend has to be brave, strong, and smart, you say?” 

Damian gritted his teeth. “You are paraphrasing at best but I assume you already got the general idea because I am not going to repeat myself for your benefit.” 

He turned and before he could turn the door handle of the bakery to continue his dramatic exit (or in this case, dramatic entry), the door flew open and it would’ve hit him in the face had it not been for his quick reflexes.

The scowl reappeared on his face and he turned back to reprimand the person who dared try to attack him with a door to see a girl about his age, shuffling past his bewildered brothers in a hurry. 

Damian blinked, watching as the girl with raven-haired pigtails promptly tripped over nothing, crashing into the pole, the box she was holding fell from her hands and macaroons came tumbling out. 

He watched with interest as the girl mumbled out apologies to the inanimate object, picking up the fallen macaroons from the ground while she did and putting them back in the box. 

Snapping out of his daze, he handed Titus’s leash to Grayson before moving to help the girl, grabbing the remains of the macaroons from the ground and placing them in a neat row in the box.

He held out a hand for the girl to take, which she accepted with a grateful look and he pulled her to her feet. 

Getting a good look at her face, he was filled with a fluttering sensation in his stomach and he ignored it, thinking he must be coming down with a stomach bug. “Are you alright? That was quite a fall.”

Her bluebell eyes were blown wide, staring into his green ones with surprise. She broke the stare first, shaking her head before responding, “I’m fine! Thank you for your help, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Her phone dinged and she yelped. “I’m sorry but I’m already late, see you around, mysterious handsome but kind person!”  

He opened his mouth to respond but she had already sped away, only catching sight of her red face as she turned.

His face heated as his mind caught up with her words. The girl was definitely something… 

He felt an arm going around his shoulders and he didn’t react, still staring in the direction the girl took off. 

“So, didn’t know Demon Spawn had it in him to talk to a pretty girl without scowling,” Todd drawled, the beginning of a teasing expression appearing on his face when he noticed the dazed look his youngest brother was sporting. 

Damian shoved him away, looking distracted.

Drake shook his head, mumbling, “I must be hallucinating, Demon Spawn would never willingly talk to someone, much less a girl.” 

“That one. I want that one.” Damian declared, unknowingly sending his adopted brothers into cardiac arrest at the words that fell out of his mouth. 

Grayson looked torn between looking wary and gleeful. “Uh… what do you mean by ‘that one’, little D?” 

Damian didn’t look at him as he pointed in the direction the girl ran off. “Her.” 

Todd’s jaws gaped like a fish, for once, speechless. 

Drake in his sleep-deprived state can only dumbly respond, “That’s not how it works, Damian. You can’t just go around adopting people.”

Damian finally dragged his gaze away from the direction the girl had long run off in, glaring at his brothers with his cheeks blazing red. “Not adoption, you imbecile.”

Not giving them the time to respond, he continued, a look of stress crossing his expression before he willed it away. “You lot have to keep Father from adopting her, it would cause complications.”

Grayson hummed. “She does meet the criteria, black hair and blue eyes.”

Todd seemed to have unfrozen, shaking his head in denial. “Wait wait wait, just wait a second. You’re saying, she’s your ideal type? You literally met her 5 minutes ago! I thought you said your future partner must be and I quote ‘brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized’?” 

He prattled on, not paying attention to how Titus had taken to getting slobber all over his shoes. “No offence to her but she tripped over air and crashed into the poll in front of her. The clumsy behaviour caught your eye of all things? Are you sure you haven’t been abducted by aliens?” 

Damian glared, the red not receding from his face. He rounded on Drake. “Do a full background check on her, it is necessary for me to know everything about her if she were to be my partner.”

He paused, scowling. “Actually, I better do this myself. I need to know everything about her, it is better if you imbeciles stay as far away from her as possible. She does not need you all to monopolize her time.” 

He grabbed Titus’s leash from Grayson and headed in the direction of Le Grand Paris to do just that, leaving behind his shell-shocked brothers. 

Jason turned to his brothers, looking amused now that he had gotten over his shock. “So, who’s gonna tell him that stalking is not the right way to woo a girl?” 

[ctimenefic]

i’m obsessed w ur mean dom george and his boy scout knots, even more so w the events of this weekend and the weird amount of flirting him and max have been doing recently!! i could totally be barking up the wrong tree with gax vibes but they have been really fun this year

Okay forgive me nonny for typing directly into the answer box, the typos will be horrendous, but I'm in a tiny french café right now and unfortunately dom george gax has seized my mind so:

Max Verstappen propping up the VIP bar at the Bellagio is not George's problem at 9.04 on Monday, when his hangover is beating a tattoo between his eyebrows that even his largest pair of sunglasses can't hide. His GPDA hours are strictly 9-5, Wednesday through Sunday. On Mondays, he gets peace, he gets quiet, he gets to order precisely one hair of the dog Bloody Mary and crunch through the celery in private.

Max orders another gin and tonic without tearing his eyes from the door, and George sighs.

He'd texted himself, last night, somewhere between the first club and the second. Assumed, naturally, that Danny's one-man tour of the US would have to hit Vegas for Max's fourth, even if he was conspicuously absent from the race itself. But when he checks now, there's still no reply.

His "G'morning" rumbles out, frightfully inarticulate, throat still whisky-burnt. Max spares him a bleary glance.

"Is it?" He sounds dopey drunk. His mouth looks sticky. George's mum loves a G&T too; she used to tuck him in at night, suddenly fond and warm and cuddly, and the smell would tickle his nose, comforting and disorienting in equal measure. It's never the gin that lingers, always the lime and the lemon. Max should switch to Hendricks, with its cucumber twist. It would suit him better.

"Are you staying here?" he asks. Max blinks, makes a nod that's half a shrug. Good enough. "Are you packed? When's your flight?"

"It's my plane," Max says mulishly, like he hasn't got at least three friends - or maybe it should be colleagues at this point - booked in for AirMax. Not George, of course. George is travelling with Toto. He's quite looking forward to it, ten hours in quiet approval, thumbing through The Times on an iPad, starting from the Sport section.

He doesn't bother pointing out the obvious, but he does allow himself a couple of disapproving tuts. It's surprising when Max's shoulders curl, slightly, a flush crawling up from under the collar of his hideous team jacket.

George checks his watch. He's got time, he supposes, to play the good Samaritan.

(When Max's red eyes flick back to the door, he thinks he might've done it anyway, his fifteen minute buffer be damned)

"Let's get you to bed, then, shall we?" It doesn't take much to haul Max upright. They're all easy enough to throw about, if you've got the strength. But he's not expecting Max to tuck into his side, nod into his shoulder and chest.

He manoeuvres them both to the lifts with minimal interruption, which is a relief. Max is more pliable than at the bar, but practically useless. He's on one of the keycard-only floors, because of course he is, four time champ and maddeningly casual about it. George has to rummage through his pockets for it; Max makes an insultingly shocked noise when George slides long fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. "Don't get excited," he scolds.

Something twitches under his fingertips. The firm hard line of the keycard is nudged into his grip.

George raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin, and turns to tap it, secure their no-stop ride through a ludicrous number of floors.

Then he spins back, and Max's inordinately large mouth is fastened to his jaw.

Detaching him takes some effort. "We are going to bed," Max argues, as George cranes his neck away.

The lifts had seemed too big before, American big, a fun house of mirrors exaggerating the gilt and gaud of it all. Now he could do with a couple of square miles more between him and the drunk determined look in Max's eye.

He's looking straight at George, but not like he's ever looked at him before. There's nothing to recognise in those eyes.

("I saw Max in the bar," he'll tell media in three days, a wry smirk on like cheap perfume. "But he didn't see me." And then he'll get the recognition he wants, surprise and a flicker of heat, quickly doused. A bit mean, to do it for the cameras. But he'll know by then, that Max likes it mean.)

"No," he says now. He fits his hand across Max's chest, between the swell of his pecs. Palm against his sternum, thumb and fingertips pressed to his collarbones. The span of it makes Max look small. His eyes have gone lidded.

"No," he says again, and presses firmly. Max is lax against the mirrored wall, mouth still open. Drunk, but neither of them are passing a sobriety test right now. George's driver is probably getting a coffee right now, checking the time. George won't make him wait. He's considerate like that.

Four floors zip by in quick succession.

"Not until I say," he tells Max, firm. Forgiving.

He steps into Max's space slowly. Makes him wait, straining against the pressure of George's hand, until he deigns to lean down and lick into that gin-sour mouth.

Max is sloppy, uncoordinated. George keeps his hand where it is but lets Max grab at his waist, his arse. He grinds like a puppy when George slips a thigh between his, but his dick's either even smaller than the paddock gossip says, or suffering from one too many doubles.

It doesn't matter. It's always been enough for George to be wanted. To grant, or withhold.

It doesn't even sting now, when they're surprised to want him. All of his victories will always be a shock.

He stops Max from straying up his jawline or down his neck. He doesn't want to spend his flight sticky, grime against the prickle of a fresh shave. Keeps it to kissing, a light nip at Max's bee-stung bottom lip when he gets pushy.

He's got one eye on the dial, though, so when the door opens on Max's floor, with its implausible colonnade, George has stepped back, just a friendly finger and thumb holding Max's chin. The blue of his irises has almost disappeared behind the black of his pupil.

"Bed," George orders, sharp, and Max stumbles out with more speed than George thinks he'd get sober. Sober Max would fight all the way down; it'd take hours to get him sweet. It'd be time well spent.

He follows at his own pace, pleased to see Max holding the door open for him, hands shoved deep into his pockets in a poor show of casualness. It's lost the second George steps inside and Max is on him again, fingers scrabbling to pull George's shirt out of his pressed slacks.

When he pushes Max off this time, he wraps his hand against the base of his throat. Squeezes, just a little.

"Shirt. Jeans. Off. Bed," he orders, clipped and quiet. Max looks delightful when they hit home, stunned and open and young. George quite badly wants to put his thumb on Max's tongue, watch him drool around it. But he's being good; he's got a plane to catch. He holds himself still for the clumsy minutes it takes Max to comply, waits until Max is flat on the bed, duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed.

Bless him, he's still soft in his boxers. But his face is enough for George to know.

Daniel had liked it too, when George had put him on his back and told him to stay still. That cocky grin wiped off his face for a long minute, brown eyes blown wide. Maybe that's their problem, Max and Danny. No one to give the orders.

He allows himself just this: a trail of fingers, up the length of Max's leg, over the meat of his thigh, the softness of his stomach. A flick against a hard nipple, and a light chuckle at the full body jerk Max makes under him.

And then, with a flourish worthy of a Vegas magician, he yanks the duvet up to Max's neck. "Sleep it off, you madman."

Max's fury is a series of choked, inarticulate noises George would relish extracting in other circumstances. Luckily, Max has not regained any of his mobility; he fights against the duvet, but George has easily enough time to tuck himself up against his waistband, hidden by the fall of his trousers, and make it to the door.

"Congratulations again," he throws back, before it closes behind him. He finds he means it.

He's on the pavement, monogrammed carry on in hand, just as his driver pulls up. He makes a note to tell Alex, with some elisions. He could use a reminder of the value of punctuality.

There's a sign on the freeway, just before the airport. "What happens in..." and so on. Somehow, he's not convinced Max will see it that way come Qatar. But-

It lingers, the sight of Max's face. Not spitting angry, or dumb with lust, the need to submit. But tired and empty and hopeful nonetheless, eyes fixed on the entrance of the bar.

Disappointed not to see you in Vegas, he texts Daniel as Toto and Susie settle in opposite him. You should make it up to me.

That, Danny replies to.

to my winner? 👅👅💦

Yes, George types. Both of us.

[loveshotzz]

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader chap nine/ten - a slow burn series of blurbs - updated every wednesday

Ask Me What I’m Thinking About

summary: Baseball can be a dirty game.

wc: 8.3k

warnings: 18+ some drinking, semi public fooling around (in a skybox), steve gets a little too worked up teaching you the rules of the game😏 (slight daddy kink)

authors note: I can’t believe we’re at the second to last chapter 🥺 thank you to everyone who’s been reading and all your sweet words this whole series, you guys really are the best 🧡

🌇 <- chapter eight

The Masterlist / The Playlist / The Tune:

The kiss lingered on your lips for days after the Fourth of July. A week at work lost in daydreams about the man that tasted like lemonade and stole your breath under fireworks at the lake. Fingertips trace the places graced by his lips to try and keep the feel of them fresh in your mind, impatiently counting down the days till you see him again.

You tug at the bottom hem of your sundress standing at Steve’s front door. It’s shorter than you’re used to, and the shade of red it was could never be found in your wardrobe until earlier this week. You’d fallen victim to an after work shopping trip with a coworker who had persuasive opinions that had you feeling confident when you looked in the long mirror of the fitting room. Her words ringing in your head like a mantra as you take a deep breath before knocking. Somersaults and cartwheels in your stomach, you wonder if it will always feel like the first time.

Bandit’s loud bark makes your cheeks push up in the kind of smile you usually only give to Steve. The sound of  long nails scraping excitedly on the other side of the door followed by his owner's deep bellow of his name only make it grow more. Butterflies take flight when you hear the click of the lock, another tug and a second deep breath.

“Bandit stop- Hey - oh wow, baby.” Standing there with the door half open, Steve drinks you in with hungry eyes. They roam up the expanse of your thighs, licking his lips when he sees how dangerous a strong breeze can be. “You look - wow, you look beautiful.”

It feels like summer heat on your cheeks, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to beam. Maybe Jenny from work was right. Your eyes are just as greedy as his when you notice the tight fit of his jeans, and the white cubs jersey with the top two buttons undone. It makes his tan darker, along with the crisp tank top underneath. The silver chain around his neck catches in the sun from its place of the soft patch of chest hair that you’re realizing is always on display. His feet are bare and it makes you shift from side to side like it’s  something intimate.

“You look very easy on the eyes yourself Mr. Harrington.” You giggle and it makes him blush a furious red all the way to the tips of his ears.

Bandit whines impatiently behind Steve, his nails tapping against the wood floor. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’s coming in, calm down.” He opens the door a little more, turning around with one hand on the handle to usher the dog back to let you in. Your eyes catch his last name patched onto the back of his jersey like it's official. The realization that it probably is intimidates you.

It almost smells like the last time you were here, the rich cedar undertones are met with a hint of Bandit when you cross the threshold. He gives you a loud excited bark for good measure before his owner cuts him loose, shutting the door behind you. Steve doesn’t even try to stop him from jumping when you welcome him with open arms and a high pitched “hiii, handsome!”

Steve rolls his eyes dramatically when Bandit whines licking your face, but the smile he can’t fight gives him away.

“Alright, that’s enough. I didn’t even get my kiss yet buddy.” Steve chuckles, snapping his fingers making Bandit fall back on all fours in a huff.

I didn’t even get my kiss yet.

The words make your breath catch in your throat, Steve was going to kiss you again. He was just going to do that now, whenever he wants, and you’re gonna let him.

“Gettin’ jealous or somethin’ Steve?” You tease trying to hide the way he sets your skin on fire when his darkened eyes look at you like that.

“What if I am?” His voice drops to something new, something dirtier and it makes your thighs clench. 

One of his hands finds its way to where your dress sinches and smooths out at your waist, while the other rests against the wood behind you. He takes the few steps that have your back pressing against the door, fingers squeezing softly at your side before he reaches up to cup your cheek in the warmth of his palm. Looking down over the sharp line of his nose, the pad of his thumb traces the sticky silk of your glossed bottom lip. He wonders what flavor it is today, he can’t wait to find out.

“I’d tell you to do something about it then.” It’s a little shy the way it comes out just above a whisper, meeting his gaze from under your lashes.

His nose brushes with yours, the mint from his toothpaste fanning cool against your cheeks. Needy fingers find their way to his belt loops giving him a gentle tug closer and it makes him grin, you let his lips be a phantom against yours, impatience winning when you pull him in. 

It’s gentle at first and it feels like fireworks at the lake, like the butterflies from your first date. It’s when your hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck that he presses his weight against you. His thumb pulls at your chin begging you to open up for him while his knee pushes its way between your legs. A week of being kept apart with nothing but thoughts of this has your tongues meeting greedy in the middle when you get lost in it. Spoiled with it. Noses press against cheeks and he can taste the tangerine that coats your lips in a sticky sweet mess. 

He groans when you bite at his bottom lip, thick eyebrows marrying in the middle when he kisses you harder, his knee getting a little bolder, getting closer. He can feel the heat that radiates from between your thighs like this and he curses at how short your dress is. Were you trying to kill him? Irrational jealousy pangs in his chest at all the guys that’ll get to look at you like this today. Guys your age. 

Bandit barks at something he sees outside making you both jump apart. Even with kiss bitten lips and a little dizzy from the lack of oxygen, you already miss him. He laughs quietly, pressing his forehead with yours the golden specs in his mossy eyes gleam feeling like a teenager again. All he wants to do is kiss you.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that all week if I’m being honest.” Steve confesses, long fingers finding yours, lacing them together like he needs you.

“I was terrible at my job this week, and it was definitely your fault.” You grin looking up at him like you love it.

The two of you stand there for a minute letting your eyes take in features that had started to soften in your memories. He smiles before bumping his nose with yours one more time, stealing a quick peck pulling away before you have a chance to kiss back smirking at your small pout.

“Let me get my shoes on and we’ll get out of here. We’ll get some dogs at Wrigley.” Steve calls over his shoulder, ruffling Bandit’s head on his way up the stairs.

“Dogs?” You snort under your breath so he can’t hear, your fingers finding their way back to Bandits fur scratching him behind his ears. You swear he’s smiling when he pants looking up at you with big friendly eyes.

You gaze towards his kitchen as you try to catch the breath he took with him up to his room, the memory of your almost first kiss feels like a lifetime ago. It’s not long before Bandit takes advantage of Steve’s absence, snorting playfully before he trots to the living room. Long nails click against the wood floors when he comes back making your heart swell when the stupid dancing banana you won at the block party sits in his mouth. Its stitched eye is already half gone, and an arm just barely hanging on.

“This your banana, cute guy?” You coo with a sweet smile, reaching out to accept his invitation to play tug of war with the plush toy.

You’re a mess of giggles when he starts ‘growling’ at you and trying to rip it from your grasp, pulling you forward every so often when he pushes back on his paws for an extra hard tug. Too lost in your own world, you don’t notice Steve watching from the top of the staircase. The necklace he bought last week burns a hole in his pocket, especially seeing you like this. He knows he’s already in love and it makes him want to laugh. Classic Steve. The hushed conversation he had with Eddie on the phone in his room lights a fire inside him. 

“It’s a necklace, it’s not a ring Steve. I stopped waiting around for the ‘right’ time and now I’m tryna start a family with the love of my life. What sign are you looking for, big guy? She’s seen your darkest parts and she’s downstairs waiting for you.”

You looked too pretty in that dress not to be his.

You finally get the toy away from Bandit, throwing it far enough for his paws to slide in place for a second before he takes off after it. Too busy laughing at the way he shakes the toy from side to side when he finally gets it between his teeth, you don’t hear Steve come up behind you. The fresh spice of his cologne hitting your nose gives him away first, the big hands that grab at your waist to pull you against his chest, the second.

“Missed me?” He teases, pressing a kiss behind your ear that makes you shiver. He likes that he can do that.

“Not really, I was having a pretty good time with Bandit actually.” He can’t see your shit eating grin, but he knows it's there.

“Not even a little bit?” He presses with a smirk in his voice, his lips ghosting against the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can’t help but tilt your head, giving him more to kiss. 

“Maybe,” You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, lashes fluttering when there’s a gentle nip at the dip of your neck. “Maybe a little bit.”

Steve smiles against your skin, humming in approval at your admission keeping you close for a few more minutes, and you realize you’d be more than happy to just do this the rest of the day. 

“Before we head out, I uh - “ He clears his throat, going a little stiff against your back as he starts digging in his pocket, “I got you something.”

You feel the way his hands shake, and it makes you want to turn around but the grip on your hip only tightens to keep you in place. 

“It’s easier to give it to you like this.” He mumbles, giving you a reassuring squeeze, your heart thumps wildly in your chest. 

“Steve what are you -“ Your sentence dies on your tongue when you feel something dainty and cold wrap around your neck. Your fingers reach up instinctively and the tips of them meet the smoothness of a stone that dangles at the end of it. The necklace.

“I couldn’t help myself, I hope it’s o - you just said you liked it and -“ Steve’s a mess of nerves behind you while you look down, fingers toying with the stone, awestruck at the gesture.  “If you think it’s weird I can -“

Turning around you cut him off with your lips, tangerine gloss in the form of appreciation makes him smile into the kiss. You keep it short this time, pulling away no matter how much your body screams for more. You start to think you’ll never have enough. Is this what it’s like to be in love?

“Steve, I love it” You whisper rolling back on your heels, your fingers already obsessed with touching the stone as you look up at him through your lashes. “Thank you.” 

His cheeks turn to cherry blossoms, all the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxing, Eddie was right.

“Yeah?” He wants to hear you say it again, and he can tell by your grin and the glint in your eyes that you know he does too.

“Absolutely, I’m probably never going to take it off.” You giggle looking down in admiration again and it makes Steve feel like a million bucks. He never wants you to take it off either.

Steve doesn’t hesitate to grab your hand as you walk up to the main gates of Wrigley Field, fingers intertwining like he doesn’t want to let go when he shows the security guard his work badge and you suppress the urge to grab it from him when you make it inside. The urge to see the picture lessened knowing that the chances of it actually being bad were slim to none.

The stadium is intimidating when it’s empty, your mind reeling when you think of what it’s going to be like in an hour when the stands are filled with screaming fans. Concession stand workers bustle around the two of you in preparation for the onslaught of sports goers. Summer hangs heavy in the air with the sun high and bright in the cloudless sky. It smells of fresh cut grass, pop corn, and hot dogs. The perfect day for a baseball game.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on the bright green field that looks even bigger than on TV, it’s the kind of green you know can’t be real with crisp white lines that lead to each of the bases. There’s a few players out practicing, they wave at Steve when they notice him. His fingers squeeze yours tighter when one of them smiles a little too friendly in your direction. The memory of you in his car on the way here admiring the necklace in the visor keeps his jealousy at bay. You were his.

“You gonna give me the grand tour or somethin’?” You ask with eyes unable to focus on anything in particular, still mesmerized by how big it all was while the two of you head in a pointed direction.

“Just grabbing something out of my office for Richard, and then I’ll show you around.” Steve winks and the gesture makes your knees weak. 

“Ooo I get to see your office?” You grin, bumping shoulders. It makes his cheeks push up.

“It’s nothin’ special, baby.” He chuckles, letting go of your hand, fingers curling around your hips to pull you into his side instead. Your heart skips a beat, looping your arms around his waist, still not used to his affection coming so effortlessly like he’s been doing this his whole life with you. 

It feels like a maze while he leads you through the stadium, twists and turns down long back hallways, tight lipped greetings every time someone walks by throwing him a ‘Steve’ with a nod of their head. Their curious eyes always land on you tucked under his arm. Who is that? Your palms sweat at the thought of how Steve was going to introduce you. The gift around your neck makes your mind wander.

It’s when you get to an elevator that you decide there’s definitely no way you’d be able to find your way out of here alone. More than confused when the back of it is all windows overlooking the opposite side of the field you had come in from. Steve laughs from behind you as if he can read your mind, big hands finding their way to the metal bar, caging you in with your back against his chest.

It takes you to the very top with a loud ding before it drops a little and the metal doors slide open. He doesn’t let you get too far before he takes your hand again to lead you down a hallway. The white walls are lined with awards, plaques, and framed Sports Illustrated covers filled with faces of different baseball players, some you recognize and some you don’t, as you make your way to the very end. You try not to make eye contact with the few men who have their doors crack half way open.

“Just gotta find the plans for next season really quick, then we’ll go see Eddie’s guy Antonio. If I don’t buy hot dogs from him specifically, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Steve rolls his eyes at the last part but you catch the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his lips as he unlocks his office door, pushing it open to let you in.

“I’m startin’ to think Eddie might be your boyfriend. Were you talkin’ to him in your room earlier? Does Peach know?” You tease looking up at him as you brush past, and you’re not surprised when the smell of cedar hits your nose again. The faint hint of cigar smoke creeping in underneath. Of course his office smells like him. 

Steve’s eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink when he realizes he wasn’t as quiet on the phone as he thought.

“I was just - I was just following up with him on something about my trip out there in a few days.” He stammers, making you giggle. You try not to think about the news of him leaving again so soon.

“Yeah, whatever you say, handsome.” You grin and it’s his turn to roll his eyes at you, the whites of his teeth showing in spite of himself.

“Ha ha, very funny.” He dead pans before making his way around his desk that just looks like a bigger version of the one in his house. An actual desktop replaces the sleek laptop. He clicks the mouse harshly before his long fingers work the keyboard.

It’s hard to tear your attention away from him but your curiosity gets the best of you. His office is huge, you think. Maybe the size of your whole apartment kinda huge, and it's just as nice as you thought it would be.

A giant window that overlooks the entire field takes up one whole wall, walking over you realize you’re so far back that it makes the grown men out there look small. Your chest tightens when you see how high up you are. The rest of the walls are decorated with similar pictures like his office at home, group shots of work retreats, team building dinners, shaking hands with people you’re sure are important in the sports world and he looks handsome in all of them. 

There’s a baseball bat propped in the corner, and the image of him on his bluetooth swinging it around in his office while making a deal, makes a home inside your head and the dough of your thighs press. Glancing back over your shoulder at him, he’s too lost in whatever he’s searching for in his emails to notice the smirk on your face, his bright eyes squinting at the screen.

It’s heavier than expected when you grab it, the weight of it making it feel like a weapon in your hands. You do your best to remember what you’ve seen a few times on TV as you try to grip it how a real player would, before giving it a sloppy swing, your wrists almost giving out on the curve.

“Honey, you’re holding it all wrong.” You can hear the way he tries to suppress his laugh, the sound of his shoes hitting the carpet telling you he’s coming to assist. 

“Oh yeah, Mr. Big League?” Regripping the wood again, you try your best to ignore him when he stops behind you, determined to do it without him.

“These nicknames, you need to stop. They aren’t very good.” He snorts, referring to the previous classic ‘Mr. Sports’. 

That’s when he gets it. The first eye roll of the date. He thinks the first is always his favorite. 

“I think it was the nicknames that got me the second date.” Grinning like an idiot you take another terrible swing.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna break your wrist.” The laugh he was trying to hide earlier comes out when his arms wrap around you from behind, big hands over yours holding the bat steady and it makes you forget how to breathe for a second.

Steve’s arms cage you in and it feels like he’s everywhere. The mint on his breath still smells fresh when the side of his face presses against the top of your head, hot breath fanning across your cheek. The muscles in his stomach twitch against your back, while the ones in his arms tense, squeezing you close as his fingers move over yours helping you tighten your hold. You can barely see your hand underneath his and your stomach flips at the sight. 

He’s talking but you can’t focus on the words he’s saying, not when you can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs from the corner of your eye. The stubble on his jaw rubs against your temple as he tries to explain the proper stance on deaf ears. Pine form his body wash lingers on his skin, he overwhelms your senses but all you want is more. You can feel it in the way your body leans into him, the curve of your ass shameless against his denim.

“Okay, so that’s the grip. Now your stance, it’s all wrong.” His mouth is closer to your ear, lips ghosting along the shell of it demanding your attention. It’s as if he knows he doesn’t have any of it and all of it at once and you swear he gets closer, a subtle grind of his own hips in response to yours.

“I’m listening,” you say breathlessly. It gives you away, making his lips curve up into a smirk.

“I’m sure you are, baby.” The tip of his nose nudges behind your ear, while his fingers make a path down your arms, the pads of them dragging gently against your heated skin, callouses leaving goosebumps after them. Your breath catches before they curve around your sides, squeezing at where the dip of your hips meets the top of your thighs.

“Now, you wanna push back your hips a little.” His strong hold moves your body with ease, making your ass press hard against him and you feel that part of his body for the first time. His heart is beating so fast you can feel it. Thump, thump, thump.

“Like this?” you ask, innocence dripping from your tone. When you grind against him with more pressure you can feel just how big he really is – especially as his jeans begin to tighten. 

“Fuck - baby.” It comes out a little desperate, like he’s warning you but his hold only tightens keeping you in place. “Yeah, just like that.”

It’s his hips that roll this time, and it makes your eyes hit the back of your head. Your fingers threaten to come loose around the bat, too distracted by the man behind you. Especially when his lips ghost a path up the side of your neck, hot and wet.

“I think it’d be easier if I could have something to lean on, you know? I just really wanna teach you right.” He nips at your earlobe and it makes you shiver, pressing yourself back against him hard enough to feel the zipper of his jeans between the fat of your ass cheeks.

“You’re the professional, who am I to say no to you?” You knew you were laying it on thick, but the groan it earns makes you swallow your pride with a press of your thighs.

You squeal when he yanks you back, dropping the baseball bat to the ground with a low thud. Your giggles fill the usually quiet office and he wishes he could have you here all the time. He takes a couple long strides backwards before he hits the front of his desk, pulling you onto his lap as he sits on top of it. His hands get greedy when they reach around to grab at the tops of your thighs, the material of your dress bunching up underneath them, revealing more new skin to him. He wonders if you can feel just how hard you already have him.

“Despite not watching, like, any sports, something tells me this can’t be right, Steve.” You smirk, another giggle slipping out when you feel his smile against your neck.

“Like you would know.” He scoffs, his hands find their way back to your hips, encouraging another roll from them. The little gasp he earns makes him twitch in his pants. “Yeah?”

You nod with a ‘mmhmm’, eyes closing when he does it again. Tangerine on your tongue when you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, your hands finding a home on the tops of his thighs. You grind against him like you mean it, like you’re not playing along with whatever game this was before. 

“God, - shit, baby, this dress. This fuckin’ dress. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His lips get sloppy on your neck, tongue and teeth nipping on sensitive stubble rubbed skin. 

Knock, knock, knock 

You both jump at the same time, hearts hammering in your chests. The feeling of being close still makes your body buzz at high frequencies as you try to recover from the last five minutes. 

“Steve?” The familiar voice is muffled behind the closed door. 

You watch Steve readjust his pants to try and hide the obvious, a nervous hand running through his hair before he answers. You make him feel like a fucking teenager.

“Hey Richard,” The husk from Steve’s voice is gone as he looks at you to make sure you’re ready for company.

Tugging the hem of your dress down, you pull the straps back onto your shoulders giving him a quick nod, cheeks burning and underwear a mess. 

“Come on in.”

Richard strikes again.

Steve takes one last look at you, dark eyes that eat you alive while his tongue rolls in against the inside of his cheek. Eyebrows marry together in a mixture of annoyance and lust when he realizes just how close he’d gotten to everything he wants. 

The door creaks and it wouldn’t be so loud if it wasn’t so quiet. A tentative Richard  steps into the room, brown eyes looking back and forth and you wonder if he can tell he interrupted something. You try to control your breathing, turning towards the window after you give him a friendly smile to try and hide the way your chest heaves.

You hate Richard.

“So we meet again.” He jokes trying to break the ice. Yeah, he knows.

Steve gives him a tight lipped smile pushing himself off the desk with another hand through his hair, the soft thuds of his shoes filling the beat of silence as he walks back behind his desk.

“I was just finishing printing out those spreadsheets for you.” Steve clears his throat and it makes your lips twitch, your eyes getting lost in the green field below you. 

You can’t bring yourself to face his boss like this, again.

“Great! I’ll take them now. I was just coming up here to see if you and your lady were coming to the pre-game drinks at The Barrel Room downstairs, some of the guys wanna run some things by you.” You can hear Richard scratch the back of his neck when Steve doesn’t answer immediately.

Steve wants you alone. Now.

“You know I hate to mix business with games, but they really wanna meet the guy behind the marketing.” He adds, telling Steve it’s really not an option to say anything other than ‘yes’.

“Sure, sure. The game doesn’t start for another hour anyway.” Steve gives, and you meet his eyes from over your shoulder with a small smile that says it’s okay.

Despite the no smoking sign, the smell of cigars linger on most of the men in the members only bar under the field. Your summer dress feels out of place in a room full of business men dressed in their expensive casual attire. Their expensive cologne mixes with the sting of whiskey that’s over a sphere of ice in most of their glasses. Lit by a dimmed chandelier, small TV’s line the space over the bar with live feeds of the field and ESPN. The nicest sports bar you’ve ever seen.

Steve keeps a tight hold on your hand when he orders you both glasses of champagne and a bottle to be delivered to the suite, winking at you when he picks the sweet option.  

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t think I’d be doing anything for work today.” He lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist pulling you to his side. His soft lips kiss your temple as a second apology.

“It’s fine, it’s actually kinda hot seeing you like this.” Looking up at him from under your lashes, you love the way it makes the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Oh yeah?” He grins, the green in his eyes threaten to turn black when his hand slides a little lower, the tips of his fingers touching just above the curve of your ass. They twitch with the urge to squeeze. 

“Yeah.” It’s quiet, just for him to hear, dripping honey like in his office. You turn your  body towards him, pressing yourself closer with a palm running up his chest, fingers playing with buttons when you bite your bottom lip into a smile.

The low groan you get vibrates from his chest, his hand daring to go a little lower, pulling you even closer.

Clink, clink

The bartender slides the two flutes over, popping you both out of your bubble right as someone clears their throat behind you.

“Steve, they're over there in the corner. They just need maybe ten minutes of your time and then I’ll get out of your hair.” Richard’s voice breaks you two apart but Steve still keeps a hand on the small of your back as he hands your glass over, the popping and fizzing of the bubbles inside making it shimmer rose gold in the low light. 

“Sure, I’ll follow you.” He takes a sip before bringing his eyes back to yours, the blunt ends of his nails scratch lightly against your back, giving you his undivided attention. “You gonna be okay for a little bit?” 

“I’m a big girl, handsome.” You smirk around the edge of your glass, all the blood rushing to your cheeks when he looks at you like that.

“I know you are, baby.” The smile that takes over his face knocks the air out of your lungs. Steve presses a kiss to your forehead before he follows Richard to the two men across the room who are looking eager to meet the man you can’t get enough of.

Ten minutes turns to twenty and another glass of champagne, your eyes meeting Steve’s every so often across the room in a silent apology. This second glass is enough to make your skin come alive, fingertips buzzing and nerves melting. The bubbles tickle your lips when you take another sip, the strap of your dress falling down your shoulder at the same time. 

Licking your lips, the sweetness of your gloss mixes perfectly with the fruity hints of the champagne and it makes you give a quiet ‘mmm!’ when it hits your taste buds. Setting your drink down, you can feel him staring as you fix your dress. Your fingers wrap around the soft material, and you dare to meet his eyes again. The green forest you’re so used to getting lost in is replaced by the kind of darkness you’ve only seen in the night sky, the kind where the moon hides the stars in its depths. The men surrounding him are talking but he’s not paying attention, his sole focus is on you.

The two glasses of champagne makes you feel bold. Holding his stare, you move slowly when you pull it back to its home on the top of your shoulder. Soft fingertips drag across your skin, leaving the kind of goosebumps he usually gets and it makes his jaw clench. He needed to get out of here. 

He knocks back the rest of his glass, saying something to the men that have stolen enough of his time from you. He finally excuses himself with a few strong handshakes and that million dollar smile. The one that always makes your thighs press. Running a hand through his hair as he pushes through the crowded bar, his eyes stay locked on yours, heavy lidded and hungry and it makes your stomach do flips.

“Ready to pay attention to me?” You pretend to pout when you turn around to face him. When you lean back on your elbows he can’t help but take in everything you’re offering him. 

Big hands grab at your waist, pulling you against his chest. He’s got a lopsided salt and pepper grin when he dips his head down to skim his nose along your jaw before his lips stop right at your ear. They twitch when he feels the way it makes you shiver.

“More than you know, baby.”

The suite is somehow even nicer than you’d imagined it’d be, the kind of nice that makes you giggle when you take it all in. Flat screen TV’s hang from two separate places on the exposed brick walls. The bottle of champagne he’d ordered earlier sits chilled in a bucket on the marble countertop in the small kitchen with two glasses. The stainless steel fridge that you’re sure is fully stocked shines in the bright, low hanging lights. 

The open concept leads to a living room area, a dark gray leather couch sitting in the middle looking way too comfortable for something like this. It faces a giant window that overlooks first base, high enough in the stadium for no one to be around you and gives out to a balcony with four seats to watch the game outside. 

“Jesus Christ.” You laugh wandering around the new space, fingertips touching the cool leather of the couch as you look at one of the TV’s that hang over it. A crystal clear image of the game getting ready to start just outside. The empty stands were completely filled while you were busy in the boys club downstairs. 

“Yeah, it’s a little ridiculous.” Steve chuckles, the loud pop of the champagne being opened echoes in the big space. “I never watch games in the suites. Me and Ed are always in the stands. I was actually a little surprised when Richard offered it.”

Maybe Richard wasn’t that bad.

You can hear the way the bubbles fizz when he pours you each a glass, neither of you speaking. The realization you were finally alone hangs thick in the air. No more interruptions. The crowd cheers outside when the announcer booms through the speakers that line the outside of the field. The sounds of the game starting cuts through the tension like a knife. Steve clears his throat behind you, making you jump a little. 

“Sorry, honey,” He smiles, trying not to laugh as he hands you a glass.

“Champagne and hot dogs? Steve, I think you’re trying to get me to fall in love with you,” you say,  a part of you that feels like it’s already too late. You are in love with him.

“I still can’t believe you asked Antonio for ketchup, shoulda taken a picture of his face.” Steve snorts, cheeks turning pink at your words. 

“Normal people eat their hot dogs with ketchup, Steve. I’ll ask for ketchup at every hot dog establishment in this city. I don’t care.” You roll your eyes at him for the second time today, and he thinks he’ll get a lot more of those by the end of the night as you keep sipping your sweet drink. 

“I’ll make sure not to be there when you do.” Steve winks smiling over the edge of his glass and it makes you just as flustered as the first time.

“Whatever, it’s a stupid.” You mumble turning back towards the window because looking at him was becoming too much you– fingers twitching to touch him, your lips pouting just to kiss him.

You set your drink down on the coffee table, the buzz from before coming back when the alcohol breaks through the food you had on your way up here. The nerves in your stomach become a mess as you walk up to the thick glass. The game he was supposed to teach you was already in full swing below. The tight baseball uniforms have you imagining what Steve would’ve looked like iand the thought is enough to make the softness of your thighs meet. 

Steve sets his glass down next to yours, licking his lips as he gets to take in the way your dress wraps around your curves. You can feel the heat of his stare on you and it makes you shiver, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. You try to focus on the game and not the way he comes up behind you. He smells like whiskey and summer, the fruity notes from the champagne coming out in the breath that fans down your neck in a mixture of Steve.

“Speaking of rules.” The husk in his voice is back, and the tip of his nose nudges behind your ear. He can’t see the way it makes your eyes hit the back of your head, but he can hear the way it makes your breath catch as his lips brush that sensitive spot on your neck. 

“Yeah, some teacher you are. The game, the-“ you stutter when his hands find their way to your hips, squeezing before they move down, long fingers spreading wide over your thighs. “The game’s already started.” You manage to breathe out, giving into him pulls you against him.

He’s already hard again, and he’s barely touched you. The feeling of your body, with only the thin material of your dress keeping his hands from what’s underneath, sends his brain into orbit, especially when he feels the slow grind of your hips searching for more.

“You actually gonna listen to me?” Steve asks with lips so close to your ear that it almost makes you whimper. All you can do is nod, and he relishes in the way your eyelids get heavy when he hums ‘hmm?’ to ask you again. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll listen.” You can’t find it yourself to care how you sound a little desperate.

One hand stays on the curve of your hip, while the tips of his fingers on the other trace over the goosebumps already blooming on the exposed skin of your thigh. They catch the bottom hem of your dress, dragging the soft material up with them. Wet lips leave sloppy kisses along your neck, smiling against the curve of it when he feels the way you spread for him, silently granting him permission. 

“So, the umpire is the guy crouched behind the hitter,” He whispers, as he keeps moving up at a pace so slow it almost makes you stomp your feet, tempted to throw a fit to make him touch you. “He keeps track of the pitches, the swings and misses. Three strikes, you’re always out.”

He reaches the lace edges of your panties, and it makes him twitch in his pants. How dare you?

“Fuck - baby.” He dips a finger underneath, tugging the material lightly before letting it snap back against your hip. “You wear these for me?”

“Maybe.”  You smirk, arching your back so your ass rubs against him in a way that makes his grip on your hip turn bruising. He exhales a deep breath through his nose to try and regain control.   

“Maybe?” He tsks while the hand under your dress gets bolder, the pads of his fingers brushing over the heat between your legs, groaning when he feels the way you’re already soaked through them. “This doesn’t feel like a maybe.” 

“I’m missing the game because -“ You gasp when he dares to push them to the side, a thick middle finger swiping through your folds, moaning at how you feel like silk.. 

“Because?” He practically purrs as he circles your bundle of nerves with a pointed pressure, like he already knows just what to do to make you fall apart.

He feels even bigger pressing hard against your ass like this. Your hips roll to meet the motions of his finger, offering him a little relief when his hips meet yours at the same pace. 

“You’re -you’re not teaching me.” Your jaw goes slack when another finger starts circling your entrance, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

“Well, you’re not looking.” He’s smug, especially when he dares to push the tip of his finger in just enough to stretch you out, earning a gasp.

The crack of the bat meeting the ball makes your eyes snap open. The loud cheer of the crowd is enough to make the ground shake underneath you. Steve uses the distraction as his opening to slide the first two knuckles of his finger inside you. Your hand comes down to wrap around his wrist, a small whine escaping you when he pushes it all the way in. He braces himself against the window when your hips start to roll, helping him work you open. Every movement of his hand brings you closer against him to meet in the best kind of friction. 

“See, your eyes are closed, honey.” You can feel his grin when he nips at your jaw, the middle finger on your clit being replaced with the pad of his thumb when he has it join in stretching you more for him. 

Opening your eyes is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially when he already has you feeling so full with just two of his fingers. They flutter open with every ounce of your strength you have left, and he hums in approval when he sees them again.

“Good girl.” His praise makes you clench around him and he’ll never forget it as he starts littering kisses along your shoulders, the strap of your dress falling down again. “Now he didn’t get a home run, but the bases are loaded. Do you know what that means?” 

The deep baritone in the way he’s talking to you makes it even easier for his fingers to keep up their pace, coating them in even more slick when it vibrates against your ear. 

“No- oohhh,” Moaning when his thumb adds the kind of pressure that threatens to make your knees buckle. He grinds himself against you with a little more force, never this close to cumming in his pants since high school.

He grunts, his cool facade breaking when you meet his hips, circling slow when you feel him push between your ass cheeks again. 

“It’s when the hitting team has a member - god, baby, you feel that? So fucking wet.” He pauses so he can hear the mess you're making of his hand. 

“There’s a player on every base, so if he can hit it far enough and they can all make it to home base, they’ll gain the lead -  You’re so damn tight.” Steve doesn’t know if he can even do what he’s asking of you anymore, too lost in the feeling of the velvet of your walls wrapped around his fingers and what it’s going to feel like when he finally gets to be inside of you.

All you do is nod, the coil in your stomach tightening in a way you’ve never felt before. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and the muscles tense as he keeps working you to the edge. The thrust of his hips against you becomes shameless as he chases his own end.

Another loud crack of a bat catches your attention, you can barely see the baseball as it soars far over the field. Bouncing off of the back wall when no one catches it, the players on their respective bases start making a run for it, making the crowd go wild.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty?” He asks leaving open mouth kisses anywhere he can reach, teeth nipping at sensitive skin while his fingers curl, the tips of them hitting the spot that makes you see white. Your eyes catch the silver around your neck in the reflection of the window and it's enough to make you give in.

“Ohmygod, Steve - fuck, yes, yes, daddy, yes.” 

He doesn’t know if it’s how your voice raises a pitch when you call him daddy or if it’s the way you reach behind him shamelessly trying to work him through his jeans, but it’s enough for his own body to go rigid. He moans loud enough to drown out the crowd, and you feel the warmth of his release under your palm. Your own washes over you hard enough to make your legs shake. You clench around his fingers that struggle to keep up their pace, but still relentless in their mission to keep you falling apart for him. You give him another squeeze through his pants and it makes him whine overstimulated against your neck.

The sound of the sports broadcasters vibrates from the speakers of the TV, signaling the switching of teams with the Cubs in the lead for the first inning. When Steve can finally see straight, the realization of what just happened makes his cheeks tinge the darkest shade of red. You made him cum his fucking pants. The day of touching and teasing took just as much of a toll on him as it did you. Your walls still flutter with every twitch of his fingers still buried inside of your heat, and he swears his dick threatens to get hard again.

He’s gentle when he pulls himself out of you, pressing soft kisses with sweet words against your cheek when you whimper a little at the feeling of being empty again.

“How’s my tough girl?” He whispers nose nudging your cheek as he puts your underwear back the way he found it, tugging down the bottom of your dress before turning you around to finally face him.

Your body still buzzes like a live wire, no one making you cum that hard from just their fingers before. The men your age always want to move so quickly. Steve’s eyes are still glazed over with a post orgasm glow, cheeks flushed, hair mused and all you wanted to do was kiss him.

“Feeling like an expert in baseball.” You giggle, and it makes him throw his head back giving you one of those deep bellied laughs you love so much.

You don’t wait anymore, pushing up on your toes -  your lips meet his in an explosion of things you want to say but can’t. Not yet. He doesn’t hesitate to meet with the same eagerness, pushing you up against the window with a big hand coming up to your cheek, his thumb coaxing you open with a pull on your chin.

That feeling stayed with you the rest of the day, the two of you attempting to watch the game in between kisses cuddled on the couch and teaching of rules that you claimed were stupid just to get him to scoff. It swelled in your chest the whole car ride home, your fingers fiddling with the stone dangling from your neck and his hand finding a home on the top of your thigh.

You almost let it spill when he walked you to your door, kissing you stupid in your narrow hallway despite the sticky thick humidity. He watches the way you silently battle with the urge to invite him in, and despite everything inside of him wanting to just get lost in you for the rest of the night, he couldn’t have you like that once and leave. So he keeps kissing you by your door until sweat drips from your pores and your dress gets rucked up to your hips again. Promising you his time when he gets back, eyes gleaming with sincerity with his forehead against yours.

Yeah, you were in love with Steve Harrington.

———————————————————————

beta’d by @chechelia thank you ily ♥️

dividers by @chechelia

🌇 -> chapter ten

[transhitman]

I’ve seen a lot of Mouthwashing lets players get confused when Curly laughs when Jimmy finds the gun. I wanna try my take, lemme know if I’m delusional or not.

There’s a short story by Juan Rolfe called “No Dogs Bark” about a father carrying his son’s corpse back to their village so he can receive a proper burial. The father talks to his son’s body as if the young man is still alive. Through context clues, the reader learns that because of the father’s emotional neglect, his son ran off to become a highwayman and that’s ultimately what got him killed. There’s a line in book where the Father seems to come to terms with his son’s death, his failure as a parent, and that the last futile gift he can give his son is to endure the suffering with carrying a decomposing body back to town without stopping to rest so the boy can be buried as soon as possible:

“I cannot think of a sentinel’s burden so Hellish and so fit for a man like me.”

The choice of the word “sentinel” always stayed with me. The duty of a protector, a duty that this Father clearly failed when his son was alive and can only fulfill with futility in death.

When the player finally sees Anya’s body and where’s she positioned in Curly’s line of sight/proximity; I think Curly would say those same words.

Rolfe goes into detail about how the Father’s human senses reflexively react to the smell and sight of decomposition: eyes watering, visceral nausea, and lightheadedness, but the Father does nothing about it and says that sentence with “anguished joy”. Curly has no eyelids to blink away his watering eyes, can’t pinch his nose from the smell, or tend to his nausea. Literally every protective measure his body would employ to withstand being in the vicinity of decaying flesh is removed from him.

The fandom can debate whether Curly karmadically deserved to be in a position where he cannot look away from Anya’s corpse/put into the pod, but I think, HE THINKS he deserves it. Once Jimmy has that gun -practically a monument of Curly’s failure to protect Anya- is when he finally accepts her death. This flawed-but-good man and captain who has failed to protect his crew, accepts this final sentinel’s duty of being the last survivor of the Tupalr dissent into chaos. And He accepts this duty with complete anguished joy.

Okaaay this is so interesting. I at first took Curly laughing as like. Kind of breaking as he realizes the gun was literally right here the whole time. It should have been obvious where Anya hid it. Literally right next to him all these months. God, the irony. But I really like the interpretation that it's the point where he realizes he's going to either die or be the last one alive, and that he has finally reached his personal hell. Cause like. Anya and Daisuke are dead. Jimmy has the gun now and either he'll kill Swansea and then himself (because let's be honest, Jimmy would not chose to live with himself after this and I think Curly knows it), or Swansea will overpower Jimmy and then put Curly out of his misery like he did Daisuke. And Swansea sure as hell isn't taking the pod for himself after everything. And Curly knows there's no other outcome. Everyone is going to die because of what he did and he deserves to bear witness. Cowboy Bebop endscreen You're Gonna Carry That Weight. Fuck that's such a good interpretation...

[whumpsday]

I Deserved It

Whump Oneshot - Writing masterlist here

content: time loop, pet whump, failed escape attempt, guns, major character death, whumper turned caretaker, suicide

Whumpmas in July Day 3: "___ deserved it."

i wrote this all in one sitting and when i looked up it was 4am. starting WIJ off with a bang!!

-

Day 1

Devran didn’t know it was day one of anything at the time, though he certainly learned fast.

The little shit had tried to escape. It had never done that before, and he certainly wasn’t a fan of it. He’d thought his training was getting him somewhere, Emereo seemed almost completely obedient. But somehow, it had all gotten away from him.

Not enough for the pet to actually succeed, of course.

His captive was weeping in a crumpled heap on the floor by the time Devran was done with it. Devran was careful to never go further than what he could fix on his own–it wasn’t like he could take the damn thing to a hospital without getting arrested. Still, the bruised, broken figure kneeling at his feet seemed thoroughly cowed, and the fresh, smoking brand on its shoulder blade ensured that it would never forget its place again.

He grabbed it by the collar, the pet’s eyes flashing with terror as it was brought up again.

“Master–” Emereo gasped, “Master, please, I’m sorry! No more, I won’t run again! I’ve learned my lesson!” It winced away from him as much as it could without pulling back.

Devran scoffed. “Clearly, you’ve learned nothing. Begging for the punishment you’ve duly earned to stop?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” it cried. It opened its mouth, then closed it again, no doubt biting back more pleas for it to end.

“You deserved it.” He shook the helpless thing a bit, watching it choke on the collar for a moment before moving with it. “Say it!”

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran dropped it, then kicked it one last time for good measure. Emereo whimpered and curled in on itself, every muscle in its body tensed and waiting.

Exactly how he wanted it.

He dragged it back over to the wall, clipping its collar to the chain there. “No food today or tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”

Emereo slumped over. “Th-thank you, Master.”

Devran left it there, locking the basement up as he went upstairs. Two days nursing its injuries in the dark with no food should give it the time it needed to reflect on its actions.

He went on with his day, not paying any more mind to the crying mess in his basement aside from when he cleaned the branding iron.

Later, he would swear that somehow, when he went to bed that night, he could feel that something wasn’t right.

-

Day 2

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran blinked.

He was back in the basement, his fist coiled around his pet’s collar, just like yesterday. Emereo’s brand was even still smoldering, he noted.

He dropped the wretched thing, taking a moment to collect himself while Emereo shook on the ground. He must have been dreaming, right? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep.

“Sir?” Emereo squeaked.

“Stupid,” he muttered, turning away and back up the stairs. Though he didn’t bother closing the door, the Emereo of his dreams had learned its lesson just as well as the real one and stayed put.

Devran straight up to bed, and though it was still light out, managed to get himself to drift off into a nap.

-

Day 3

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran was not the slow sort.

He only gripped the pet’s collar tighter, drawing it up with a yank. “What’s going on?” he barked.

“I deserved it!” Emereo repeated, pupils dilated. Its hands raised slightly, then lowered as it snuffed out the instinct to loosen the pressure around its neck. “I’m so sorry, Master! Please!”

“Forget about the stupid escape!” Devran threw the pet to the floor, hard. Its skull cracked audibly against the concrete, though it did not lose consciousness. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Emereo’s breaths came quick as it wracked its mind, desperate to placate its master. “R-remember what, sir? I remember my lessons! I won’t forget again!”

“Great. Just great.” Devran stormed upstairs and locked the door behind him. If he was going to figure this out, it certainly wouldn’t be aided by a stupid pet who had no idea what was even happening.

Internet searches returned only science fiction. Obviously, this was out of the realm of the ordinary. He was on his own, but Devran was nothing if not adaptable.

And clearly, he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

After a day of fruitless research, he checked himself into a hotel for the night. Perhaps it was the bed.

-

Day 4

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It was not the bed.

Devran sighed, dropped the pet, and headed back upstairs without another word. He started writing ideas in his journal, but scrapped that–it would all be erased anyway. He would simply have to remember everything.

He brewed a pot of coffee in pursuit of his next endeavor. Every time he slept, he reset. So he simply would not sleep. Obviously unsustainable, but maybe if he crossed some sort of threshold, time would go forward as it was meant to again. It wasn’t like he’d never pulled an all-nighter before. He would aim to pull two, at least.

On the bleary 40th hour of his endeavor, Devran was pulled from his countless shaky-handed cup of coffee by a soft knocking.

“Master?” came a small voice.

At least it was something to distract from the sleeplessness. Devran opened the door. “What?”

Emereo backed up, almost tripping over itself as it fled to the bottom of the stairs. “C-could I have some water, please? My bowl’s been empty… I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just…”

It was very, very clearly sorry. It was apparent that it would rather be doing anything else at the moment.

Devran rolled his eyes. “Stay.”

The pet obeyed as Devran filled a cup with water, brought it back, and tossed it down the stairs, spilling it all over the floor. It could lick it off the ground if it wanted it so badly. He was too tired to give a shit. “There’s your water.”

“Thank you, sir!” Emereo called as he slammed the door back.

Devran returned to his pacing until he was simply too exhausted, only daring to sit down for just a moment.

-

Day 5

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

“Damn it!” Devran shouted, throwing his pet to the floor. It shrieked, covering its face as it cowered away.

Back to the drawing board.

He stared curiously at the pet curled on the ground. He’d been focusing on himself and his behaviors to stop the loop, but why did he always wake up here? Was it simply random chance, or could Emereo be connected to this, somehow? Even if it couldn’t remember?

Devran lowered Emereo, then released its collar. “Have you ever seen Groundhog Day?”

“W-what?” it asked, completely tense as it looked up at him.

“The movie, the one about the man trapped in a time loop. Keep up.” Devran snapped his fingers.

Emereo immediately positioned itself into a kneeling position. “Yes, sir! I’ve seen Groundhog day. M-my siblings and I used to watch it on the actual holiday.” It covered its mouth suddenly, like it had said something it shouldn’t have.

“I’m stuck in a time loop. Like in Groundhog Day. Do you understand?” Devran asked.

It was immediately clear that the pet thought he was losing his mind. It looked up at him questioningly, trying and failing to hide its obvious disbelief. “...Yes, sir. And… should I be, um, doing something?”

“You should be glad your punishment’s interrupted. I keep resetting right then, why is that?” he muttered.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.” Emereo’s voice was quiet, trying hard not to trip on unsteady ground.

“Useless.” Devran left it down there and headed upstairs, then out the door.

His friends were even more useless than the internet had been.

-

Day 6

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran dropped it, heading upstairs without another word. It had been a while since he’d opened this drawer for anything other than cleaning, and, well, he’d always wanted to try this. Either it would break the loop and he’d be free, or it wouldn’t and there would be no consequences.

The pet’s eyes grew wide as it looked up the stairs when he returned, straight up the barrel.

“Sir?” it breathed, not daring to move a muscle.

“Good night, pet.”

With that, his basement was painted red. Devran didn’t bother cleaning it up.

-

Day 7

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It was strange, seeing his pet so full of life after blasting its brains all over the walls. Devran released it to the floor, taking a step back.

“You used to watch Groundhog Day every Groundhog Day with your siblings,” he said simply.

Despite its aching body and cracked ribs, Emereo moved swiftly to prostrate itself, bending until it was the utter picture of submission.

“Please don’t hurt them,” it choked out, “I’ll do anything, Master, anything, I promise I’ll never try to run again, just please. I’ll be such a good pet for you, I swear! You’ll never need to discipline me again! Please don’t, oh God, please–”

“I’m not going to kidnap your fucking family. Get a grip.” Devran snapped, and Emereo in turn snapped up to an upright kneeling position. It cried out as the sudden movement jostled its injuries, but did not complain.

In all their time together, he had never seen it quite this distressed. Devran pocketed the idea to ensure future obedience, once he’d dealt with this damn loop.

“You told me this. I’m trapped in a time loop,” he explained. “Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, sir!” The pet was unreadable this time, its mind clearly elsewhere.

“Listen.” Devran snapped again, and Emereo flinched. “Every day for the past week, I’ve woken up to you crying here, and nothing I’ve tried has worked. I’m half-convinced you’re somehow involved with this.”

“I didn’t!” Emereo insisted, fresh tears brimming. “I s-swear, sir, I didn’t, I’m sorry I tried to escape, but I didn’t–”

“Not like that. In the more… catalytic sense,” he corrected.

Emereo pursed its lips.

“What?” Devran demanded. “Spit it out. I only have all day.”

“H-have…” It cut itself off. “I’m afraid I’ll be… punished again, sir. I don’t want to disrespect you.”

“You’re disrespecting me more by disobeying my direct order to spit it out.”

“Have you ever seen Groundhog Day, sir?” Emereo asked. It put its arm up to guard its face, as if that would do anything.

Ah. Of course that would be the first thing the stupid pet thought of. He hadn’t seen the movie itself, but it had wormed its way into popular culture enough for him to get the gist: a man is trapped in a time loop until he betters himself as a person.

“Very fucking funny. That’s a movie, this is real life.” Devran turned to leave it once more, then stopped.

Why not? He might as well try everything.

“You know what?” He turned back toward the pet.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Emereo wailed. “Please, I didn’t want to say it, you ordered me to!”

“Go.” Devran stepped aside, gesturing up the stairs.

Emereo shook its head, frantic. “I’ve learned, sir. I promise. I’ll never run again, never, never.”

“I said to fucking go.” Devran grabbed it by the collar and dragged it upstairs, throwing it out the door. “Don’t come back.”

He shut the door in its bewildered face.

It wasn’t even an hour later that police showed up to arrest him.

Devran didn’t particularly mind. If it stuck, he would still be imprisoned for less time here than he would be if it didn’t.

-

Day 8

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran abandoned the pet once more to work on his own. While Emereo’s idea was juvenile at best, there was a kernel of worth in it: perhaps there was some use in looking to time loop narratives. If someone else had ever escaped his predicament, perhaps they’d write a book or script about it. It wasn’t like he was lacking time.

He threw some food and water down for the pet so he wouldn’t be disturbed, then set to work.

After Groundhog Day, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, and Happy Death Day, he fell asleep halfway through 1408.

-

Day 9

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It had only been just over a week, but the spot Devran had left off in his old life was slowly starting to lose its meaning. He couldn’t find any energy to be angry about the escape attempt anymore.

“Up,” Devran ordered, releasing its collar.

Emereo struggled to its feet. “Yes, sir.”

Devran led it upstairs. “Go sit on the couch.”

“Yes, sir.” Emereo collapsed there, whimpering as it tried to find some semblance of comfort with its injuries.

“Your punishment is over. I’m going to be watching some movies and TV shows. If you’re good, you can stay and join me for lunch and dinner,” Devran offered. Perhaps the recent watch of Groundhog Day had made him soft after all.

The pet wiped its eyes. “Thank you, Master. I’ll be good.”

He put on 1408 again, fast-forwarding until he got to the point he’d fallen asleep at. The pet watched with rapt attention, not seeming to mind having missed the beginning of the movie. It did not speak at all during its run, only looking away to try and fail to spot the brand now taking residence behind its shoulder.

After a horrific torment at the hands of a cursed hotel room, the protagonist ended up setting it ablaze and escaping. Devran had already successfully fallen asleep outside his house, so that didn’t help at all.

“This wasn’t the original ending,” Emereo piped up suddenly. “They changed it because test screeners thought the director’s vision was too much of a downer. There’s actually four endings, ‘cause they made a bunch trying to find a good one for theaters, they included them all in the DVD release. He dies in the fire in the original one.”

Devran turned to look at it.

Emereo shied away. “I-I used to watch a lot of horror movies. Master.”

“Hm.” Well, that was equally as useless. If dying was the only way to escape the loop, he’d be dead after he escaped, and it would be pointless. “Lunch time, I think.”

It turned out that getting through all the movies and staying awake was easier with Emereo’s commentary. It slowly opened up as Devran encouraged it. It even gave recommendations.

-

Day 10

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran lowered his hold slowly, then released it. That brand really did look nasty. All that bright-eyed babbling from yesterday was gone, now.

“Punishment’s over. Come on.” Devran helped it up, his hold firm even as Emereo flinched from his touch. “No more hurting for now.”

Emereo was able to get up the stairs much faster with help. Devran even applied some burn cream to its brand and gave it some ibuprofen for the pain.

“Thank you, Master,” it said after it downed the pills. “You’re… more merciful than I’d expected. Thank you. I really won’t try to run again. I’ve learned.”

It was a pathetically low bar, but it was also the most kindness Devran had ever allowed it at once. This was how he’d imagined it in the beginning, when he’d pictured training a human pet: a loyal, devoted companion, after the pesky conditioning was out of the way. He’d seen others in his circles accomplish the same. He’d thought for a while that they’d simply chosen better victims, and he was stuck with this one now that he couldn’t let it go without the police on his tail. Maybe it just required a gentler hand.

“Good. Maybe I’ve been too harsh with you, and that’s why you felt the need to run,” Devran conceded. “We can both learn from this. A better pet and a better owner.”

He chanced a soft pat on the head. Emereo only flinched a little.

“I’d like that, sir,” Emereo agreed. There was no doubt in Devran’s mind that it wanted to be free more, but its words were sincere nonetheless.

-

Devran fell into a routine.

At the start of each day, he took care of Emereo, learning more and more what words were most effective in calming him down–a he now, eventually–as he treated the injuries he’d inflicted. He made lunch for the two of them, then did something related to the loop. Research or an attempt to break it. As the days went by, he grew lazier and lazier with that, sometimes skipping it altogether as he grew more sure there was no way out after all.

He spent the rest of the day relaxing with his beloved pet, falling into a kind of peace. Emereo never reacted well when he tried to free him or take him outside, only causing more distress after the punishment he’d just taken. So he stayed.

-

Day 259

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

“Good, there you go. It’s over now, I promise. You’re going to be alright.” Devran unclipped the collar from Emereo’s neck and tossed it aside. “You did such a good job. I’m not going to hurt you again. Let’s treat those injuries, okay? Let me help you up the stairs.”

Emereo’s face was the picture of relief. Devran had seen it hundreds of times. “Thank you, Master.”

It bothered Devran that this was the reset point. If only it could have been an hour earlier, before he’d caused so much pain. He’d even prayed for it, during his brief stint turning toward the church for an answer to his loop. But he always woke in the same spot.

After Emereo was all treated, Devran wrapped him in a blanket, brought him to the couch, and served him his favorite food: grilled cheese. It was about the most content someone recently-tortured could look, but through it all, there was always that undercurrent of pain and fear.

It was cruel, really. Devran had made his peace with the loop, but Emereo was the one that truly suffered for it, even if he couldn’t remember.

By this point, there was only one thing he hadn’t tried. He had mulled it over for quite a while, and he’d finally made up his mind. It was a bit drastic, but if it was the only way to free Emereo from his daily torment, he had to at least try, didn’t he?

He took his journal and wrote the names of everyone else he could think of, then tore out the page, folding it in half.

“Emereo? There’s something I need you to do,” he said as he joined him back downstairs.

“Yes, Master?” he asked, suddenly just a little more tense. Devran hated that. He wondered if Emereo would ever lose that fear, if he spent some years away from here. Away from him.

He handed Emereo the paper. “You don’t need to read this, it won’t make sense to you anyway. These are my… friends. If you ever get out of here, give this to the police, okay?”

Emereo looked lost, but that was alright. He didn’t need to understand just yet. “Um, yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re free to do as you please. Use the phone, take a walk outside, whatever you like. You won’t be punished.” Devran left him there and locked himself in his bedroom. He didn’t want Emereo to be the one to find him, even if it reset and he wouldn’t remember.

“Well, here goes nothing.” Devran clicked the safety off and shot himself in the head.

let me know if you want to be added to or removed from any taglist!

oneshots taglist

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

everything taglist

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps​

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@sowhumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

-

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@alextries

-

@wolfeyedwitch

event:

@whumpmasinjuly

[ephemerensis]

Steamroller // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

happy new year! little enemies to lovers kind of thing kind of (theyre just like on opposite ends and they don’t really know it). stalker update for all interested parties: i think he’s starting to lose interest and give up 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️! also i graduated! yippee! NOT proofread.

—

Your favorite nights were ones like these, windswept and carefree as you sped down an empty street on your motorbike. With the last of your tasks wrapped up for the week, it was smooth sailing until the next rotation. Or so you thought before you heard a familiar grating voice bark at you, swinging into the view of your side mirror and chucking something at you.

Switching lanes, you narrowly avoided the batarang that came whizzing by. This guy again. Swinging your bike back around, you pushed the brakes to screech to a halt.

“Nice try bat rat, maybe aim next time!”

If it wasn’t so dark, you’d see the scowl plastered on his face as he stalked towards you. Red Robin hated you, and that was an understatement. Which was fine, you didn’t like him much either.

“Didn’t need to,” he spat. Pressing a button on his suit started up something like the sound of metal scraping pavement behind you. Before you could react, the sharp little object he threw at you came reeling back where it came, and the wheezing sound of your back tire losing air came with it. He threw a grappling hook at you.

“You’ve got to be joking.” In a way, it was your fault for taunting the guy. But this was the sixth encounter this week, if he wasn’t constantly out to get you, you’d think he were in love.

“What were you doing at the rendezvous point Penguin set up?” He stalked towards you, for what you weren’t sure. Sometimes he just wanted to provoke you, other times he’d just go for the swing. But you didn’t have time for that today.

“Intel, not that it’s your business.” You ripped a patch out from your utility belt, slapping it on the tire he just rudely tore a hole in before applying pressure to see if it’d last the way back.

“I’ll decide what my business is.”

“You stalking me everywhere says otherwise.” The tire sank more than you would’ve liked, but it would do. He stopped ten feet in front of you; looks like he didn’t want to fight tonight either. You rummaged through your pockets for good measure.

“I am not stalking you. You’re just where trouble happens to be.”

“Yeah. If that helps you sleep at night.” When your fingers brushed against the smooth plastic you were searching for, you mounted the bike again, turning on the headlights and adjusting your mirrors. It’s important to drive safe. “Anyways! Move.”

“What-“ Before he could finish his thought you pushed on the accelerator, watching him dive out of the way. It’s a shame his reflexes were so fast, if you ran him over he’d be out of commission for at least a month.

You tossed the plastic discs behind you as you sped off, leaving a flush of smoke behind you. He was good, but he wouldn’t be able to trace you with this.

Mercenary work never really was for you, let alone vigilante work. But growing up poor in Gotham and constantly grappling with loan sharks and the other unsavory groups your parents brought upon your family taught you a few things. And you found out you were pretty good at getting things done, the sneakier stuff: spying, stealing, occasionally taking out single targets, the quiet things. It felt bad but being hungry felt worse, survival of the fittest or something like that.

You were so good you paid it all off, and made a profit; enough to get yourself and your brother through college, and give the ol’ crime lords the slip. And things were good.

You liked your 9 to 5 office job, sorting through papers and typing on your laptop. You liked talking to your neighbors and inviting them over on the occasion for taco night. You liked your partner and the cozy apartment you lived in together.

Until your useless brother threw it all away, talking to the wrong people, getting into debt again, throwing around your name where it would mean anything, and it was square one.

So now you’re here. Running from some vigilante freak that has it out for you when you haven’t even done anything all that bad; it’s the people you work for he should be worried about. Instead he wants to breathe down your neck every night of the week, and he fails, every time. Maybe that was why he got so mad, as if there aren’t bigger fish to fry.

When you got back to your apartment, it was almost three in the morning. Slipping in as quietly as you could manage, you breathed a sigh of relief to find all the lights still off. Your boyfriend, Tim, always sleeps with a night light on, something about being scared of the dark. Lucky for you, he worked ungodly hours which made sneaking around a lot easier.

You’d just slipped into your pajamas when you heard the front door open and someone flicked the lights on. You could tell Tim was frustrated by the way he walked, brisk and heavy as he tugged off his coat and tossed his tie into the abyss. But he softened when he saw you, stopping in his tracks with an almost guilty look on his face, like he was sorry for feeling anything but joy in your presence.

“Oh hey, were you waiting up for me? I told you not to.” You shook your head, making your way over to press a kiss to his cheek and hold his hands. They were still cold from outside, the walk from the parking garage must’ve been treacherous.

“Are you okay?,” you asked, running your thumbs over the back of his hands. They were rough hands, surprising for a rich boy, but in your palms they were always so gentle.

He let out a breath, laughing a little before settling into a rueful smile, “I can’t get anything past you, can I? I’m okay. Just work stuff.”

“What kind of work stuff?” You tightened your grip on him, tugging him over to sit with you on the couch. He complied, leaning on your shoulder as he sunk into the cushions.

“Just something I can’t quite… resolve.” He sounded so tired. Business always went well, and Tim was a genius, it was a wonder how he ran into so many problems in the office. Sometimes you wanted to reach into that pretty skull of his and take a peek into his brain, maybe he was just overthinking things, or maybe you’d finally understand that you could never understand. Both would soothe you.

“Yet. Everything works out in time, and you’re the best I know. Can I help?” You felt him tense when you ran your hand over his shoulder, pulling away immediately to check on him. But before you could manage to ask he reached for you, shaking his head.

“No. It’s sensitive material. I’m okay,” he insisted, leaning on you again as he perched his arms neatly where they would fit around you. “Can we just stay like this for awhile?”

It was a good thing he never asked for anything malicious, because you’d say yes to just about anything he asked.

“Yeah.” You’d never known power so intimately before you held his skull to your chest. The way he surrendered himself and was whole, shedding the burdens of his responsibilities entirely to be vulnerable for a moment. But it was coupled by an intense fear, that his trust was rare and very easily abused or misguided if you weren’t careful. And if you weren’t, it felt as if he wouldn’t ever be vulnerable again.

“Thank you, and I love you,” he whispered. Your tired, hardworking boy.

“I love you more,” you answered.

It turns out the “I’m okay” business was a massive tri-colored bruise that bloomed on his left arm. He was careful to hide it, and if you didn’t wake up a little earlier than usual you would never have known. You didn’t ask, clearly he didn’t want you to, but you were concerned— and moreso curious. He did spar with his siblings, this you knew, but they’d never do something like that to him. Maybe he was sleep deprived and got stuck between the elevator doors somehow, you wouldn’t put it past him. If you had time later, you could check in while he’s in the office, drop off dinner or something to make sure he wasn’t getting picked on.

You got up an hour after him, as you always did. There was a rhythm to your morning routine that you adored, it was comfortable; reliable. Tim made the coffee, and you made breakfast. When you first moved in together he’d offered to cook, being the one to get up first and all, but he was hopeless. Anything beyond instant noodles was a fire and food safety hazard. And you made a mean scrambled egg.

You cooked so he did the dishes, a compromise you never objected to— it was your least favorite house chore. You’d loop his tie for him when he was done, and he’d kiss you on the forehead to leave first. Your job started a little later.

At least it would if you hadn’t requested a temporary leave of absence while you worked for Gotham’s worst. You had to report whatever intel you gathered yesterday night to Black Mask. He’d have another assignment for you after, you were sure. But if you were efficient with these things, it could all be over in a month or so.

That’s what you told yourself as you waved him out the door. Thursday nights Tim usually got back at a human hour, if you could wrap up business early you could be home by the time he was too.

Black Mask was waiting for you by the time you got there, unsurprisingly. It never got easier looking at him, freakish and impossible to read, behind his skeletal metal teeth.

“Penguin’s plan?” He’d asked before you had the chance to fully enter the room, eager as ever to maintain his grasp on power. Breathing isn’t worthwhile unless you’re winning he told you once.

“He wants to spread some influenza with his birds. It’s not serious, but the cure he’s selling is. It’s highly addictive and one of a kind. I got photos on this drive.” You placed it on the man’s desk, pushing it towards him as far as you’d dared. “He’s colluding with the woman who runs the second biggest pharm-tech company in the city. It has a six week timeline, some of it was in motion last week so five from here out.”

“Okay.” Without missing a beat he’d already decided your next assignment, “get me the cure.”

“Four people have access. A team or a raid would be better suited.” You took a breath to answer him. This wasn’t possible, at least not easily. It wasn’t a job you wanted to take, and it wasn’t practical. Money wasn’t Black Mask’s pursuit, it should’ve been enough just to thwart his enemies, not profit from them.

“I don’t pay you to argue.”

You had to swallow the fear that crept up your throat. Fear of death was always within reach, that much was obvious when you took on mercenary work, but the fear Black Mask brought on was a little more primal. Something instinctual you had to ignore.

You couldn’t take this job. The both of you knew it would go over the hours you were signed for, anything that could arouse suspicion from your normal life was carved into stone as off limits. Tim couldn’t know, that was the rule. And this assignment could take you weeks, “…it breaches our contract.”

“I pay overtime. And let me remind you, you’re in no position to say otherwise.”Disagreeing twice was a hefty endeavor and the man was right, you had your brother to consider. It’s always funny, the way you think you have any say in things. “Get me the cure.”

You didn’t have time to pack up, leave a note, or meal prep dinner. It was burdensome to disappear, at least a little. But Tim would be okay; hurt, but okay. It’s not like he’d miss you terribly, he was working over-overtime as it was, and you hoped he would forgive you when you got back.

So you vanished. It was quiet work, mostly tailing people to get a lead, working to worm your way in to the right social circles, sorting through files while people slept.

Red Robin was looking for you, or at least investigating your activity. He’d have caught you a few times now if you weren’t more focused on working during the day. Not that he knew what was going on, that much was evident. Not that he would be able to do anything if he did run into you again anyway, that boy just kept losing. Or maybe he didn’t want to win.

It was hard to know what his objective was. Just that he thought you were bad news and made things harder than they needed to be. But he did intrigue you. Righteous Red Robin never fought dirty and it was a little flattering how he was insistently so hot on your trail. Maybe you’d tease him about it after this whole ordeal and he could throw another grappling hook at you.

It only took two weeks to gather enough standing in Penguin’s sphere to have access to his office. With all the snooping you’d done, you knew every possible password and key you’d need to access the files for Black Mask. If you broke in tonight, you’d be by daylight. Theoretically.

So you took to it. It wasn’t hard to break in once you knew where everything was. Nothing was terribly discreet, just about as hidden as valuables would be in someone’s home. Getting into the main computer was a breeze, you’d talked up enough patrons and underlings for them to spill every access code they knew. As you slipped in a USB to transfer the remaining files you needed, a familiar set of footsteps sounded behind you.

Brisk, decided, and determined to be quiet, you knew he was lurching forward with a right hook before you had the chance to turn around. You jerked your body out of the way before he could make contact, putting as much distance between the two of you as you could manage. Thankfully the file transfer already started before he rudely interrupted your heist, you just needed to buy time.

“Can we not do this today?” You couldn’t help the annoyance creeping under your skin; Red Robin’s timing couldn’t have been worse. If he’d shown up ten minutes later you would’ve been gone. Of all the times to barge in, he chose to when you were just about done.

But he was faster than he usually was, before your thoughts could finish flowing through your skull he was throwing something at you again; muttering a sharp, “shut up,” in tandem. A gasp left you as it grazed your cheek, he’d never drawn blood before, even so minutely.

Before you had a chance to react he was on you, swinging his staff with enough force to kill a man. It was all you could do to avoid it before the next swing came, overbearing and deadly, unlike you’d ever seen from him. Any ounce of annoyance left in you evaporated in favor of fear and adrenaline, he was angry.

“What is your problem? If this is about running you over, I knew you’d dodge it!” The knives you had tucked away in your boot straps were useless, you didn’t have time to reach for them and even if you had them there were no openings to intervene. With a stroke of luck, he hit the wall hard enough for his staff to get stuck, giving you enough time to make a run for the window. The files would have to wait.

Just as you were reaching to pull up on the windowsill, a batarang caught the fabric of your shoulder, pinning you to the wall. Another grazed your outreached hand, distancing you further from your escape route.

If you were scared of Black Mask, you were terrified of Red Robin. Or at least, this state of him. You’d never noticed before how the whites of his mask looked like headlights, barreling towards a sundered deer. With whatever cognition you had left, your uninjured hand reached for the dagger in your boot, but you were slow and he wasn’t feeling gracious. He grabbed your wrist with one hand, pinning it next to your shoulder, and with the other he jerked you forward by your collar.

A glimpse of metal hanging on your neck made his scowl deepen and you winced for whatever he would throw at you next. But instead of a punch or getting hit with a blunt object, you felt the release of pressure when he snapped the dainty silver chain from you.

“Where did you get this?” he barked. There was something off about the way he said it, untethered. The necklace in question wasn’t something controversial; a chain with a pendant Tim had inscribed with his initials next to yours.

It wasn’t particularly valuable, nothing anyone would steal, but it meant something untouchable to you. Exactly eight months into dating he told you he loved you for the first time and presented you with it. The letters were rough around the edges from mistakes in sanding and carving when he etched the metal for you himself. And now it was being dangled in front of you, a reminder of all you could stand to lose if things went wrong. So easily snatched from you, as if they never belonged in the first place.

“Give it back.” You moved to sweep your leg under his feet, kick him, whatever you could to get it back and get out. It wasn’t fair in the slightest, he should know it wasn’t something to steal. But he just tightened his grip on your wrist and kneed your ribs once hard enough for you to keel over and stop moving.

“Where did you get this?” His anger was building, you could hear, but you didn’t care much anymore. He didn’t have the right.

“It’s mine,” you spat through gritted teeth.

“Liar.” A pang of confusion hit you, as if this were something to lie about. He was in your face now, and you glared back behind your own mask. If he didn’t back off soon you had half a resolve to bite his nose off. “What did you do to the owner? This is your last chance.”

Like Red Robin could do anything to you. You felt like a dog backed into a corner, sure enough. But upper hand or not, no one wins in a fight against a rabid dog, even if you manage to put it down.

“And I’m telling you for the last time, it’s mine.” But if you get put down, you can’t crawl back. The courage behind your words was starting to sound like desperation. “My boyfriend gave it to me and you need to give it back.”

And then your resolve was gone altogether, a plea more than a demand, for absolution. Your voice quivered on the last few words, maybe it was for the better, it seemed like that was the only part he heard anyway.

The blood in your wrist started flowing again as he let go of it, looking at you with something akin to terror. Swallowing lead, you considered taking the chance to run; rip the sleeve that was caught and book it. But something held you there, vulnerability? Or some deviant of the terror he was feeling. Your legs wouldn’t move now.

He was slow in reaching for your mask. You must’ve been slower, because you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t do anything at all, not with the way your heart was pounding in your ears. Everything in you was screaming all at once, but you couldn’t understand a thing they were saying and it was getting hard to breathe.

You squinted to adjust your vision once the mask was off, and something wet slid down your cheek. Dust must’ve gotten under the thing, you weren’t one to cry.

“Y/N?” He’d caught you and you let it happen. You heard the chain clink on the floor, and you were so sorry to Tim that you let it happen. Soiled something he put time into. Maybe it was fitting, you always took that boy for granted.

You flinched when he reached for you, pressing your eyes shut. But Red Robin didn’t cuff you like you expected. Knock you out, threaten you, chain you to a street lamp outside for the police to collect. Instead you felt arms wrap around you, hefty and secure, a welcoming warmth in juxtaposition to the cold, stagnant office air. And you knew these arms, and you knew this feeling, and you knew this scent.

“Tim?” It came out like a squeak, you didn’t intend that.

And then his head was buried in your shoulder again, his spot as it’d always been. “I thought someone took you.”

He took the liberty of freeing you from the wall first, and you dropped to the floor. Your knees felt like jello. It made sense, some of it. The late nights and the injuries.

“Without a ransom note?” you murmured. You didn’t know what else to say. It’d been Tim the whole time.

“Don’t joke.” He knelt beside you, tucking a stray strand behind your ear. After the shock, the guilt came barreling in. You caused his injuries. You got in his way. You ran away without saying anything. You’d been hurting him the whole time.

“I’m sorry.” You squeaked for the second time. After the guilt was the confliction. You didn’t know to do. Half reaching for him, half shying away.

So Tim grabbed your hands, stilling you completely with just that. He pulled a strip of cloth out of his belt to wrap around the palm he cut moments before. It was shallow, nothing that would scar.

He was probably as confused as you were, quiet to sort out the events as they’d unfolded— and the before. There was a lot to ask and a lot to explain, you wouldn’t know where to start. And if you did start, you didn’t know if you could stop. It was too much. You were tired. There were time constraints. The first bit of reality slipped itself into your mind, the two of you weren’t the only two in the world and you were here on a job. “Please don’t ask, I’ll tell you when I have the heart but please don’t ask. I might cry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re already crying.” His thumbs brushed your tears away as if just to prove it. But they stayed after, running the pad of his fingers over your cheeks for as long as you’d let him. A soothing pattern.

“Am I? I’m sorry.” Your eyes were locked onto him, and you knew he was looking back even if his eyes weren’t visible. The longer you stared, the more the tears seemed to flow. And you couldn’t fathom why you were crying.

“For what?” He said it as if nothing were wrong, and that’s all it took for the dam to burst. Flinging your arms around him to cry your worth into his shoulders. You didn’t deserve this boy.

“I love you,” you sobbed.

“I love you more,” he answered.

[himluv]

Something a Little Sweeter

Hello again! May I present some more Lucanis? With a side of Embria backstory?

This calls back to the last piece "Preparations" so you might want to read it before this one, if you haven't yet :) .

The dining table was clean, the dishes dried and stored, and Bellara and Neve had ducked out to continue their conversation in Neve’s study. Lucanis sat in a chair close to the fire and listened to the comforting burble of coffee as it brewed.

He was tired. He hadn’t slept since he and Rook went to Treviso to meet with Teia. It was impossible to track time in the Fade but there’d been two dinners. He’d lost track of how many cups of coffee.

Twenty, Spite grumbled.

“Soon to be twenty-one.” In two days? That might be a new personal best. He stared at the fire and tried not to think. Not about the funeral, about Illario, or even about Spite. He tried no to think about Rook, but he kept replaying their conversation from the Crossroads. 

“When do you get your way?” She’d asked.

A normal person would probably think she’d been teasing him. Flirting. But he’d seen her flirt and she was much more… warm. Being on the receiving end of her interest felt like a sip of Viago’s best brandy. 

Their conversation in the Crossroads had been different. Less like brandy and more like stepping out of a warm bath and into a cool night. 

Vulnerable, Spite spat.

Lucanis checked the coffee and poured a cup. He’d just taken that first, glorious sip when the dining hall door opened. He turned to see Rook step into the room.

She wore her usual Arlathan leathers, but he could tell she’d just come from the bath. Her hair was down, dark with moisture, and her pale face was bright and dewey from the steam.

Staring?!

Lucanis jolted at that and took another sip of his coffee.

“Hey, Lucanis,” she said. She stood at the end of the table, one hip rested against it. 

“Rook,” he said. 

She crossed her arms, uncrossed them only to immediately cross them again.

He recognized the desperate need to do something with your hands. He raised and eyebrow and asked, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

She sighed. “Yes, please.”

He chuckled and poured coffee into the twin of his own cup. The silver and purple ones she’d gifted him. He waited for her to take a drink, watched her shoulders drop from around her ears, and smiled at her little sigh of pleasure. 

He found her love of coffee very endearing.

“Better?” He asked.

She gave him a sheepish smile. “I missed coffee.”

“Do the Dalish not have it?”

She shook her head. “They steep a certain kind of tree bark that helps keep you alert.”

He frowned. “Is it good?”

She snorted. “Gods, no.” she took another sip. “Though nothing in the Marches was ever this good.” Her smile warmed him more than coffee, the fire, or brandy combined. 

Flirting?

Lucanis wished he knew. “Did you just come for coffee, or was there something else you needed?” That was neutral enough, right? Helpful without encouraging her attentions? But also not necessarily denying them either?

Want? Spite asked. Or not?

Another impossible question.

Rook sat in the chair next to the one he’d used a moment ago. She stared down into her cup, her posture curling in on her self. 

“Actually,” she said. “I was hoping I could talk to you.” She winced. “About something personal?”

Lucanis froze mid-sip. He took a measured swallow of his coffee, then cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said.  “If you want.” He leaned one shoulder against the mantel. “But surely Bellara will give you better advice?”

She shook her head. “I need an outside perspective,” she said. 

He hummed at that. “Meaning not Elven?”

She grimaced. “Is that okay?”

He could point out that Neve or Harding would also probably give better advice, but he doubted it would matter. It seemed she wanted to to him specifically.

Wants. To talk. To you? Spite crouched on Lucanis’s vacant chair, perched like some bad mockery of a Crow on a rooftop. WHY?

Lucanis smiled at her. “What’s on your mind?”

She took a deep breath. “So.” The word hung between them, and Lucanis braced for impact. Whatever she was about to say seemed important to her. 

“I joined the Dalish, and eventually the Veil Jumpers, to try to find my father.”

Lucanis blinked at her. “Mierda.”

“I’ve never met him,” she added quickly. “And I’m pretty sure he had no idea I even exist.”

Did she think that made it better? “He was Dalish?”

She nodded. “Mom always said he was a Dalish mage with Mythal’s vallaslin.”

He tilted his head at the unfamiliar word. 

“Oh! Sorry.” She gestured at her face. “Our tattoos. They honor the gods.“ She looked down at her cup again. “Or, at least, they used to.”

Rook. Sad? Spite flashed into being in front of Lucanis. Why? You?!

“What’s he saying?” Rook’s mournful expression was replaced with a tiny smile. 

Lucanis frowned. “How do you know he’s talking?”

Rook blushed. “Your gaze gets really intense, but also… far away?” She cleared her throat. “Like you’re listening to something, but looking somewhere else.”

He stared at her. “It’s that obvious?”

Rook’s eyes went wide, gleaming in the firelight.  “Oh, no! I don’t think most people would notice, I just–” she stopped and blushed so hard her freckles vanished in the wave of crimson. She looked down at her coffee again. 

She watches us, Spite said. 

“Ah,” Lucanis said. He stared into the fire for a long moment, willing the awkward tension to pass. 

Why does Rook watch? Spite asked. He blurred toward Rook, crouching low to peer up at her downturned face. Doesn’t trust us?

For once Lucanis understood, and it was very much not that. He cleared his throat. “You were telling me about your father?”

She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly and ran a hand through the damp stands of her hair. “Yeah,” she said. “So, I left the alienage to find him and when the Dalish couldn’t help anymore, I joined the Veil Jumpers.” She sighed. “I had his trail for a little while, but it went cold in Orlais just after Halamshiral burned.”

He’d never had many contracts in Orlais – they preferred to settle their disputes with their Bards – but Lucanis remembered seeing an uptick in contracts during Celene and Gaspard’s little spat. Shamefully, he’d forgotten about Celene’s actions against Halamshiral’s elves. 

“I figured he was dead,” she continued. “It’s been over a decade since anyone heard from him.”

“But?”

She tapped her index finger against the ceramic cup. She glanced at him, then away. “I found a note.”

“A note?”

She nodded. “First in the Lighthouse, and then another one on the docks in the Crossroads.”

“And they mentioned your father?” The Lighthouse was strange, producing things as needed. He could see the note being conjured here. But the Crossroads seemed somewhat less malleable.

She looked up at him and the confusion on her face made his heart clench. “They were written by him.” She shook her head. “Or at least by someone with the same name.”

“Perhaps it is a common name?” Even as he said it, he felt how ridiculous the words were. She would know better than him what elven names were common. 

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s from one of our tales about Fen’Harel. We all know it.” She shook her head again. “But I’ve never heard of anyone else taking it as their name.”

Lucanis watched her for a moment, noticed the way she fiddled with her cup and bounced her knee. She was nervous, perhaps even upset. This was not a conversation for coffee. 

He set his empty cup on the mantel and marched into the kitchen. He took out a small pot, a pitcher of milk, and a thick bar of chocolate. 

Rook joined him by the stove, at safe distance to avoid getting in his way. “What are you doing?”

“This conversation requires more than coffee.”

“There’s something ‘more’ than coffee?” 

He heard the smirk in her voice and smiled. “To my mind? No,” he said. “But, sometimes the heart needs something a little sweeter.”

Rook said nothing to that, though he heard a couple of delicate sniffles over the gently bubbling milk. 

You made. Rook cry!

So he had. But not all tears were bad, and after all she’d done for him, he would not hold a few of them against her now. 

By the time the chocolate had melted, Rook’s eyes were clear and curious as she peered over his shoulder. 

“So, what is this?”

“Cioccolata calda,” he said. 

She sniffed the air and hummer her appreciation. Rook’s sweet tooth was no secret, and this recipe was sure to delight. 

“The woman who worked in the kitchen, Mirabella, would sneak me a cup on my birthday each year,” he said. He hadn’t thought of Mira in a long time, but he could not see a cup of cioccolata and not smile. 

“You weren’t allowed to have it?” He voice was soft and genuinely curious. It made Lucanis’s chest ache. 

“Caterina was not fond of luxuries,” he said. “At least, not for her fledglings.”

“Sounds like she was a complicated woman.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He stirred the milk more consistently now, the chocolate dissolving to thicken the mixture. “Maybe she was,” he said. “Our relationship was certainly complicated.”

He watched the chocolate and milk swirl together until they were fully blended. Then he added careful pinches of salt, sugar, and the barest hint of Bellara’s cinnamon.

He glanced over his shoulder at Rook. “Get me a cup?”

She knocked back her coffee, then presented her newly empty cup to him. 

Mierda, this woman. Was she trying to kill him?

He took the cup and poured the cioccolata carefully. When he turned to hand it to her, she offered his empty cup from the mantel in exchange. 

“As a treat,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He blinked at her, then smiled just a little. She waited while he poured a cup for himself, then they returned to their spots by the fire. He watched her take that first sip, the way her eyelids fluttered with pleasure and her cheeks bloomed with warmth. She licked her lips slowly and Lucanis had to look away. 

Spite crouched in front of Rook, sniffing at her cup. Sweet, the demon breathed. Comfort?  He glared at Lucanis. Help Rook?

Lucanis hoped so. He would certainly always try.

“So,” he said. “Either your father coincidentally shares his name with the author of these notes…”

“Or, my dad was an ancient elf.” She took another sip of her chocolate. “And not just any elf, but a friend and follower of the Dread Wolf.”

“And if he was?”

She considered it as she took another sip. “It should be harder to wrap my head around” she said. “But with everything that’s happened?”

“What’s one more thing?” He understood the sentiment all too well, but Rook deserved better than to carry so many burdens. 

“I just wish I knew what happened to him.”

Lucanis sipped at his cioccolata, savored the intense sweetness and subtle spice. He could not remember the last time he’d had a cup, and he couldn’t help but smile at the memories the flavor conjured. 

“Have you told Neve about this?” He asked. “She might be able to help.”

Rook shook her head. “Bellara doesn’t even know.”

“Really?”

She shrugged. “It just seemed so pointless after so long. I was happy with what I’d discovered. He was real and he was Dalish.” She looked at the fire and whispered. “I had people. Somewhere I belonged.”

She took another sip and smiled at him. “And, now I do again.”

She means you. Us! Spite said. Rook belongs. With us! He sounded very pleased at his statement.

Lucanis shook his head to ward off the demon’s words – they were all too enticing. “Maybe we’ll discover more in the Crossroads,” he said. 

She nodded after a moment. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.” She set down her cup, empty, and stood. “Thanks for this, Lucanis. It was really good.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant the cioccolata or the conversation, and even less sure if the distinction mattered. He met her gaze, saw the warmth in her eyes, and refused to look away. 

“Any time, Rook.”

And as she walked out of the dining hall, he was sure she knew he meant it.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Chapter 12: The Storm We Needed

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: none

Paring: Paige Bueckers x !photographer fem reader

Fandom: Women's basketball

Summary: Silence speaks volumes or so you think...

Welcome to the chapter 12 of Through The Lens. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!! 🏀💕📸

Paige’s POV

The silence between Y/N and me was deafening. No texts, no calls, not even a glance my way at practice. She was physically present but emotionally miles away. I tried to give her space after her grandmother’s pep talk, hoping she’d come back to me on her own terms. But it had been weeks, and I was losing my patience.

I wasn’t one to play games, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

That’s how I found myself at Ted’s Bar with Azzi, Ice, and a few of our other teammates. The place was packed as usual, a mix of students and locals spilling drinks and conversations into the dimly lit space.

I knew Y/N didn’t like going out much, but I’d overheard her mentioning that her roommates were dragging her here tonight. A part of me hoped seeing me with my teammates would get a reaction out of her—anything to shake her out of this funk and bring us back to each other.

But things didn’t go as planned.

Y/N’s POV

I didn’t want to come to Ted’s, but my roommates insisted. They claimed I needed to “get out of my head” and “live a little.” I couldn’t argue—I had been stuck in a cycle of overthinking and avoidance since that night in the locker room with Paige.

I spotted her as soon as I walked in. She was sitting in a booth with Azzi and the team, laughing and tossing back fries like she didn’t have a care in the world. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to look away.

“She’s trying to make you jealous,” my roommate whispered, nudging me as we made our way to the bar.

“Whatever,” I muttered, focusing on the drink menu. “She can do what she wants.”

But my resolve faltered when I felt a presence too close for comfort.

“You don’t belong with her, you know.”

I turned to see a girl, clearly drunk, swaying slightly as she leaned into my space. She was a UConn student—I recognized her from campus.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice sharp.

“She’s too good for you. Paige and Azzi make sense. You’re just… a leech, riding on her success.”

Her words were a dagger to the chest, but I refused to show it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Back off.”

The girl scoffed, taking another step closer. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re nothing compared to Azzi—or any of them. Paige is out of your league, and everyone knows it.”

Paige’s POV

I spotted the scene unfolding from across the bar, and my blood boiled. Y/N looked cornered, her jaw tight and her eyes flickering with unease. The girl in front of her was visibly drunk, but that didn’t excuse her behavior.

“Hey!” I barked, storming over. “What the hell is your problem?”

The girl turned to me, her face lighting up in drunken glee. “Paige! Perfect timing. Tell her she doesn’t belong with you. Everyone knows you and Azzi are meant to be.”

Azzi, who had followed me, groaned audibly. “For the last time, stop shipping us! Paige and I are just teammates. Get over it.”

I stepped between the girl and Y/N, my voice low and dangerous. “You don’t talk to her like that. Ever. Apologize.”

The girl scoffed, crossing her arms. “Why should I? She’s just a—”

I didn’t let her finish. “Enough,” I snapped. “You’re done here.”

She looked ready to argue, but Azzi and Kk flanked me, and the girl finally backed off with a muttered curse.

I turned to Y/N, my anger fading into concern. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her bag and bolted for the door.

Y/N’s POV

I couldn’t breathe. The humiliation, the anger, the overwhelming ache of it all—it was too much. I stepped into the rain, the cold droplets soaking my hair and clothes, but I didn’t care.

“Y/N!” Paige’s voice called out behind me, but I didn’t stop.

“Leave me alone, Paige!” I shouted, my voice breaking.

She caught up to me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. “No! I’m not leaving you like this. Talk to me!”

“What do you want me to say?” I yelled, tears mixing with the rain on my cheeks. “That they’re right? That I’m not good enough? That I hate myself for loving you because it feels like everyone else hates me for it?”

Paige’s eyes widened, her grip on my arm tightening. “You… you love me?”

I froze, realizing what I’d just admitted. “I—”

Before I could say anything else, she cupped my face and kissed me.

The rain fell harder, drenching us both as her lips moved against mine, soft but desperate, like she was trying to convey everything she couldn’t put into words. I melted into her, my hands gripping her jacket as the world around us disappeared.

When we finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine. “You don’t get to push me away, Y/N. Not when I love you too.”

My heart stuttered, and I searched her eyes for any hint of doubt, but there was none. Only sincerity.

Paige’s POV

The rain didn’t stop, but neither did we. We stood there, holding each other, letting the world fade away.

“I don’t care what people say,” I whispered. “I’m not letting them decide who I can love. And I love you, Y/N. You, and no one else.”

She nodded, tears still streaming down her face. “I’m scared, Paige.”

“I know,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But we’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

Over the next few weeks we didn’t hide our relationship from the team or our families—they already knew. But when it came to the public, we kept things quiet. Or at least, we tried to.

Despite our best efforts, the rumors started swirling again after a fan posted a video of us leaving the bar that night. And during a post-game interview, a reporter finally asked the question outright:

“Paige, are you and Y/N dating?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Azzi cut in smoothly. “Next question, and make it basketball related,please.”

The team burst into laughter, and I couldn’t help but smile. Y/N, sitting off to the side with her camera, rolled her eyes but sent me a small, knowing grin.

We might not have had everything figured out, but one thing was certain: we had each other. And that was enough.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

       -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

Tag list: @sayurireidotcom , @astroeliza , @paxaz535 , @0phantom0 ,.... (more to be added)

[ddejavvu]

party girl! reader x party boy! sirius please?? maybe they sneak out to a hogsmeade speakeasy club or maybe its modern au? up to you, i love your work!!!

post-party where you and sirius count how many smooches you got the night prior <3

--

"This one's Marlene," You hum thoughtfully, tapping at a kiss mark on your cheek, "That's her shade."

The stark red lipstick stands out against your skin, long since dried from when she'd stamped you with it last night. Sirius searches his own face for a similarly-colored kiss mark, and when he finds none, grumbles something about being 'unfairly overlooked'.

"Sirius has one from me," Lily muses, "But I did it on his hand because there wasn't room on his face."

"There wasn't room on his face," You mock her in a sneer, huffing at the unintentional boast, "Whatever. I've got more, I'm telling you."

"Face it, babe," Sirius grins wolfishly at you, "I won this time."

"Thirteen," James, one of your weekly post-party kiss mark counters, finds the remnants of a smooch nestled against the curve of Sirius's jaw, "Y/N, I think this one's yours."

"Mhm," You nod, pointing to one on your forehead, "We give each other one at the beginning of the night, to get ourselves started."

"Well, thirteen total," James settles back on his knees, watching as Remus's face twists up into a smirk.

"Fifteen."

All at once, Sirius's face switches to indignation.

"What? Fifteen," He barks, launching forwards to inspect your face, "Bullshit. Lemme count, mate."

Remus taps at each of the kiss marks on your face individually, letting Sirius keep count as he goes. When he surpasses thirteen he has little interest left, but counts the last two just the same. Your butthurt boyfriend settles back on the floor with his legs crossed, glaring holes into the carpet and rubbing bitterly at the mark you'd left on his jaw.

"Cheer up, mate," James grins, and you're happy to spectate with Remus when James licks over his lips, puckering them exaggeratedly and smashing them twice into Sirius's cheek, then a third time for good measure.

"Sixteen!" He cheers, and Sirius, still pouting over his rare loss, takes to scrubbing his face clean with the sleeve of his robes, "You're always a winner in my eyes, Pads."